A Journey to the Past
by Bob Wright
Summary: What led to the confrontation at the Romanov Tricentennial? Here's one possible thought. Based in part on historical events. NOW COMPLETED.
1. A Carnal Grudge Spawned

A JOURNEY TO THE PAST

BY

BOB WRIGHT

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story will feature a confluence of actual events in Russian history, of which I have great interest, with the movie's continuity. As such, I have endeavored to make this as historically accurate as possible, although I have had to change some dates to line up the continuity properly. Forgive me if you know what has been altered under this. As such, acutal persons from the last decade or so of the Romanov monarchy will pop off the pages of history and land on here at various points. Two good books to validate this (actually, my primary sources for this) would be Edvard Radzhinsky's _The Last Tsar_ and _The Rasputin File_ if you are in fact interested in seeing where I got some ideas from.

All animated incarnations of persons in the world of Anastasia Romanova real or fictional are registered trademarks of Twentieth Century-Fox Film Corporation and Don Bluth Productions. And now, sit back and enjoy a journey to the past-sort of.

* * *

APRIL 1896

THE ABANDONED MONASTERY OUTSIDE VERKHOTURYE, RUSSIA

"Grigory," the voice hissed through the air, loud even though it was far away, "It is time. Come to me."

"Yes, Master," the young man with the unkempt hair and growing beard rose up from his kneeling position in a run-down monastic cell. A strong smile crossed his face. It was time to claim what he had worked for for the last decade.

He strode into the hall and walked briskly towards what had once been the chapel area. Time had gone by so quickly. It had seemed just yesterday that he'd been living as a transient on the country roads, robbing passersby to sustain himself. It was all he could have done to support himself after the villagers back in Pokrovskoe had expelled him from their village. Even then he had been aware he'd had something powerful inside himself. It had been clear whenever he'd started a fire without explanation or managed to create a thunderstorm on a sunny day. The villagers, though, had seen him only as a menace to themselves-of course the fact that he'd often retaliated against those who'd dared to mock him by stealing their prized possessions or attacking them after dark hadn't helped either-and had been quick to shove him out when he had reached his teenage years. And for a while he had wandered without purpose, without hope.

But then Makary had found him. Wise old Makary, who had appeared to him one day by the side of the road and told him he was in fact the Chosen One. That prophesy and fate had dictated that it would be he who would be the next leader of the Khlyst.

_The Khlyst-_the Whippers. The name was still only whispered in hushed and frightened tones all over Russia. The sect of some of the most powerful sorcerers to ever live may not have been what it had been at its zenith when Makary was in his prime three hundred years ago, but it was still alive and beating, contrary to what the tsars seemed to have thought lately. And Grigory Yefimovich had realized finally what he was meant to do: to become to the ruler of one-sixth of the Earth's surface once the Khlyst finally seized power yet again.

And so Makary had taken him away and trained him rigorously over the last ten years, teaching him everything about the sinister Dark Forces that existed outside of the realm of human understanding from which the Khlysts derived much of their power, teaching him how to use hatred to increase his natural powers, teaching him so many other aspects of the Khlyst way to prepare him for the fate that lay before him. Just last night, he had passed his final test-he'd returned to Pokrovskoe and burned the village to the ground with his powers. And so now the time to take the mantle of absolute power had come at last.

"Come in, Grigory," came Makary's voice again as he entered the chapel. Hunched over and nearly blind after a life of four hundred and eleven years-kept alive all that time by many frightful spells-Makary, despite his age and weakness, still burned with the desire for absolute power that had been driving him since the Khlyst's founding over three hundred years ago. "You have done well, Grigory," Makary commended him as his pupil knelt at his feet, "You are everything the prophesy said you would be as revealed to me. Thus, you are ready to assume what has been yours for the taking. From this moment forward, Grigory Yefimovich shall no longer exist. When you rise, you shall be-Rasputin, the Unholy One. Arise, Rasputin."

"Yes, Master Makary," the newly annointed Khlyst rose to his feet, "I am grateful for you showing me all you have. To know that my destiny in life is so great, that I will rule over millions of people once we bring the Khlyst back together..."

"But be warned, Rasputin, do not make the mistakes we once made when the Khlyst ruled Russia with an iron fist," Makary warned him, "These mistakes cost us the absolute power we had sought, and I doubt the order will have another chance if they are made again. You do remember well our history, of course?"

He pulled a strange object from under his robes, a greenish cylinder with an impaled skull at the top, a talon at the bottom, and a snake encircling it entirely. A strange green mist wafted out of the skull's mouth as he began speaking again and swirled until an image formed in the center: "In the year 1598, I and five other dark sorcerers, each leaders of powerful dark sects in our own rights, gathered at the top of Ipatiev Mountain in the Urals and swore an oath that we would not rest until Russia was ours. And we appealed to the Dark Forces to aid us, and they delivered us this dark relicquary," he held the object high, "Forged in pure evil, it gave unlimited power to he who wielded it. And so, we murdered the last Muscovite tsar, made pacts with foreign armies to come in and help conquer the land for us, and achieved our dream of total domination of the pathetic people. They may call it The Time of Troubles now, but it was our finest hour, and for almost twenty years we were invincible."

" But then, the Master Khlysts all started maneuvering to each seize total control for themselves," Rasputin recited the story he'd learned after first coming under Makary's wing, "Each wanted to be the sole ruler, and their fight fatally divided the Khlyst."

"Indeed, Rasputin, and I'll concede I fell into that trap too," Makary admitted grimly, "And so, it was, in this time of civil war amongst ourselves, in the year 1616 that the boyar Michael Romanov rose up and rallied the people against us. I alone among the Master Khlysts saw the danger and tried to get my colleagues to stop their fighting, but they refused to listen to me until it was too late. We were too divided to stop the people, who drove us from Moscow and executed us in droves, then expelled the enemy armies and proclaimed a new monarchy."

"And the accursed Romanovs have ruled Russia since then, usurping what is rightfully the Khlyst's throne," Rasputin grumbled bitterly.

"We have tried occasionally since then to dislodge them, but we were still too divided, even though I was the only Master Khlyst to escape the people's wrath with my life and with the relicquary," Makary told him, "But after so many years, my powers have grown too weak. Thus, it is time a younger, stronger sorcerer assumes control. And so, Rasputin, I hereby present a great legacy to you."

With one last solemn look at the relicquary, he gingerly handed it to his apprentice. Rasputin fingered it eagerly. "It will obey only your commands, Rasputin," Makary told him, "And it will do anything your heart desires. But remember my lesson; share the title of Master Khlyst with no one else. Too many of us wielded the relic before; it is clear now that only with a single, absolute head can we concentrate the movement properly. Especially now, when your first task must be to reunite all the scattered members of the Khlyst all over Russia. The movement has grown too splintered into separate sects; only when we move as one behind a sole leader can we succeed. Then you will return to Ipatiev Mountain and restore..."

Suddenly the relicquary started flashing bright green as if it were giving a warning. "What is this!?" Makary seized it back. More green mist spilled from the relicquary, showing an image of several hundred imperial troops marching up the mountain towards the monastery, looking grim and determined. "So, they have come for me at last," Makary mumbled fatalistically.

"How did they find out we were here!?" Rasputin demanded almost to himself, "Well, regardless, we will fight them to the last man, Master; we will show them what the Khlyst can...!"

"_I_ will fight them, Rasputin, alone," Makary told him as the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard outside the monastery walls, getting closer and closer, "You must leave, now."

"No, Master, we are meant to do this together...!"

"I said go, Rasputin," Makary admonished him, shoving the relicquary back into his apprentice's hands, "It will do the Khlyst no good if you die here and now."

Before Rasputin could answer, the marching stopped right outside. "Makary the Merciless!" demanded an authoritative voice from outside, "In the name of his sovereign highness Nicholas II, surrender or die, traitor to the Russian people!"

Makary grabbed a staff off the wall and fired a magical blast out the nearest window. "Go, now!" he commanded his apprentice one last time, firing a blast in Rasputin's direction to make his point clear. Bullets ripped through the windows and walls, giving the young Master Khlyst another incentive to reluctantly run towards the monastery's rear entrance. Luckily the surrounding hillside was overgrown, and there were no imperial troops staked out behind the building. He crawled through the shrubbery until he was a good distance away. He watched a pitched battle unfold below as Makary fired magical bursts at his enemies from inside the monastery. But the imperial soldiers continued firing back, and no sooner did Rasputin come to a decision to open fire with the relicquary from the hillside than the magical blasts stopped coming out the windows. "Cease fire!" the general in charge of the detachment ordered his men, "Lieutenant, make sure he's dead."

A squad of troops nervously walked into the monastery. Moments later, a shout came out from inside: "He's dead, General Volkov, Makary the Merciless is finally dead!"

A loud cheer rang up from the troops. A blinding hot rage seared through Rasputin's veins, hot as the Earth's core. The new tsar had stolen away his master right at the defining moment of his young life. From this point on, he swore to himself furiously, Nicholas II wouldn't just be overthrown once the Khlyst were reassembled into a dangerous force; the tsar would suffer beyond words...

"Bring him out," General Volkov ordered his men. Makary's bullet-riddled corpse was dumped like a sack of potatoes in front of the monastery. "That's him all right," the general nodded in satisfaction. "Colonel, notify the tsar immediately that the last leader of the Khlyst is dead at last," he ordered his main adjutant, "And bring forth those who gave us this tip; it is time they receive their reward."

Rasputin twitched, livid; who would have the gall to betray the great Makary!? His eyelids narrowed as a pair of peasants were led forward to the general. "Mr. and Mrs. Yussel Oldenstein, is it?" Volkov asked the couple, who nodded, "I'm told you received a traveler last week who wanted shelter before he went up this mountain, and you got suspicious?"

"Indeed, General," the man bowed humbly, "My wife and I decided to follow him up the mountain last week, since no one goes up here, and saw some flashes of green light coming from inside the monastery. We knew that was the trademark of the Khlyst, so we informed the local authorities that we felt something was amiss up here."

"Well, you two have done well; here is your reward of one hundred thousand rubles," General Volkov waved several adjutants with heavy bags in hand, "Spend it well, for you have rid Russia of a terrible curse. Lieutenant," he called to the leader of the body retrival unit, "Prepare to burn the building the ground; I want no chance anyone else might use anything in here for evil purposes."

"Yes sir. Get the torches ready, men," the lieuteant ordered those under his command. Rasputin was livid beyond words. His master had been betrayed by commoners-a pair of wretched Jews at that-and all because that incompetent fool Mitya, one of Makary's remaining trusted men, couldn't have kept his mouth shut when he'd stopped in for a status report the previous week! His fingers gripped hard on the relicquary. He'd be well within his rights to slaughter everyone around the monastery right now.

But he wouldn't, he decided to himself. It would be better for his purposes if the tsar thought the Khlyst permanently broken. Then he could work his revenge undetected. He could build up his power to optimum levels before he struck, he knew. In the meantime, it would be best to leave before he was discovered and the movement truly crushed. But one day, he swore to himself as he slipped silently through the bushes away from the now-burning monastery, he would return and enact a horrible revenge on Makary's betrayers before turning his sights to St. Petersburg and the eventual destruction of the Romanovs who'd taken his master from him and suppressed the Khlyst for so long...


	2. Happiness Marred

TEN YEARS LATER...

"Whoa, easy there," the coachman yanked back on the reins of the ornate carriage, jerking it to an abrupt stop right in front of the fabulous train lined up to head out at the station. He hopped down, foot stand in hand, and placed it underneath the door as he thrust it open. "Sorry about the delay, your highness, it appears we did make it just in time."

"So it would," former Empress Maria Feodorovna stepped down off the carriage and bustled towards the train, managing a smile at the porters that bowed to her. Although she wasn't sure the trip she was about to take was absolutely necessary, she didn't want to miss it.

She paused briefly in the doorway to stare back at the smokestacks rising over the St. Petersburg skyline. How much things had changed since she'd come to Russia so long ago to be Empress. Everything had still been as it had been for centuries then. Now the Industrial Revolution was in full swing, making the city almost unrecognizable. Yes, it was so long ago that she'd come to marry her beloved Alexander, then watched him rise from heir to tsar, then leave this world too soon, leaving the kingdom to their oldest Nicholas. True, there had been times she had questioned Nicholas's ability to hold the position, not least of all a few years ago when everything had almost gone down the drain, but that constitution had quieted everyone down, even if Nicholas didn't particularly think sometimes that it was the best way to have gone about business. Hopefully it would be all smooth sailing from here on. And hopefully what her son was planning to do on this trip would work and make things a lot easier for all the Romanovs.

The train whistle blew loudly; almost time for departure. She strolled briskly towards the imperial car, where through the window she could see her family seated and watching for her. "Oh, good, Mother," Nicholas rose up at her appearance, "We were getting worried you weren't going to make it."

"Traffic on the Nevsky Prospect was heavy then usual," she told him, "But I would have caught another train if I had been late."

"But it wouldn't have been the same without you, Grandma," bright-faced Marie strode towards her with her arms extended.

"I know," the dowager empress smiled as she bent down to hug her granddaughter. While her son was still trying to bear a son of his own with his wife, she loved her granddaughters just the same. Eight-year-old Olga and six-year-old Tatiana, already lovelies in their own rights, followed their four-year-old sister in hugging her. And resting peacefully in her mother's arms, two year old Anastasia was peacefully asleep. "She couldn't sleep at all last night," Tsarina Alexandra explained to her mother-in-law, having noticed her looking at their youngest, "She was so excited thinking we were going to give her a younger brother today that she was up till four. She said she wants a brother more than anything."

"Well, I guess it will depend on how things pan out," Maria Feodorova eyed the empress down. She would be the first to admit she had reservations about Nicholas wanting to marry the German princess; something had just seemed off, for lack of a better phrase about Alexandra when she'd first met her, and her husband had initially felt the same, but Nicholas had been deeply in love and would not be swayed, so in the end she and Alexander had consented, although she still wasn't completely sold on her daughter-in-law. Indeed, Alexandra had, in her twelve years thus far as empress shown a somewhat strong belief in the mystic and supernatural and had stringently pressed her husband against signing the constitution-even though it was clear to anyone at the time that was the only thing that would have stopped the riots in the streets that had broken out the previous year after the end of the disastrous war with Japan. And the courtiers were starting to feel the same way given her continued inability to give her husband a male heir thus far. Still, she had to admit, at least Alexandrea's heart usually WAS in the right place...

With a low rattle, the train jerked forward and picked up speed. "Off to Sarov we go," Nicholas seemed quite pleased. "Hopefully this will work," he told his wife.

"I just know it will," Alexandra seemed hopeful, "As Russia's patron saint, Serafim of Sarov could grant us the son we need if pray hard enough at his grave and bathe in his holy river."

"Why do we even need a boy?" Olga spoke up, her nose crinkling in disgust, "Can't you just change the law, Papa? You are the ruler, and I'm the oldest..."

"And I'm sure you'd make a good empress, Olga, but custom is custom; Paul I set it in stone when he laid down the law that only males could rule," Nicholas shook his head, "I can't overturn custom that's been in place for a century."

"Even though he put that stupid law in place just to get back at his mother!?" the girl wasn't placated, "If we do get a brother out of this, I'll make sure he overturns it when he takes the throne."

"And if he doesn't?" her father inquired, amused.

"He's going to get a bloody nose for one thing."

Maria Feodorovna had to laugh at this. "Let me have her for a while," she asked Alexandra, gesturing at the sleeping Anastasia. The tsarina handed her youngest over. The dowager empress gently rocked the child in her arms. Everyone had seemed certain she would have been the long-awaited heir; when she had instead turned out to be a fourth girl, the renowned churchman John of Kronstadt, whom the royal couple had previously gone to for help for a son, had said that that had been a sign that the girl would be destined for some kind of greatness. And already, her grandmother could sense something about her-something she couldn't quite figure out yet, but something she knew deep down would serve Anastasia well at some point. "Sleep well," she whispered gently in the child's ear, "We'll get you that brother you want here if God smiles on your parents."

She pulled Anastasia close to her chest. Apparently she fell asleep herself at this point, for the next thing she knew, the train was coasting to a stop, and loud cheers could be heard. "Looks like everyone in Sarov came out to meet us," Tatiana was looking out the window right next to her grandmother.

"Certainly looks like it; look at all the people, Anasatasia," Maria Feodorovna held up her now wide-awake granddaughter to see the throngs outside, "There still some people who hold us dear to their hearts."

"Now Mother, don't try and fill her head with pessimism," Nicholas told her, "You know as well as I do that only a small, deranged portion of the population took to the streets last year, and once the war was concluded and the police got out and about, the ones we didn't arrest went right back into their shells."

"Well for your sake, Nicholas, I hope we don't have to fight any more wars," his mother stated firmly. The train lurched to a stop by a platform decorated with bunting. "Your Majesty," a police chief stuck his head in the car, "Security is all set; you may proceed to the Sarov monastery at your convenience."

"Thank you. Girls, let's go see what God can do for us," Nicholas scooped up Marie in one arm and handed Anastasia to his wife with the other. A band began playing loudly as the royal family stepped off the platform and strolled down a long gauntlet of police towards the royal carriages. Maria Feodorovna breathed in the refreshing country air with relief; St. Petersburg was getting far too dirty these days. And regardless of whether her own or her son's assessment of the country was correct, it was good to at least be back among exultant subjects again-anything was better after having spent several months a virtual prisoner in her own palace fearing the revolutionaries could come crashing in at any time. But with the war over and the constitution in place, things had indeed quieted down. And at least the vile Khlyst, whom she suspected had derailed her husband's train twenty years ago, eventually causing his death, had at last been wiped out under Nicholas's watch; even his foes had to give him credit for that.

In no time at all, they reached the Sarov monastery. The monks bowed humbly before the royal family as the stepped down from their carriages. "You girls wait here," Nicholas instructed his daughters, "Your mother and I must do this ourselves. "After you, Alix."

He gestured the empress before him towards Serafim of Sarov's grave, a few meters ahead with an eternal candle burning before it. The two of them knelt humbly before it and started reciting prayers. "I still think they should just change the law and make me the heir," Olga grumbled when her parents were out of earshot.

"Oh sure, as the oldest, it should all be about you, huh!?" Tatiana snapped at her.

"All right, we're not here to fight," their grandmother pushed the two of them apart, "We're hoping for good fortune to smile on us, and whether either of you want a brother or not, we should hope for the best here. Now quiet while your parents pray."

The older girls obeyed, but still glared at each other. The dowager empress stepped between them to prevent any further problems. "They're asking God for your brother," she lifted Anastasia up with another smile, "It's in his hands now. If we're lucky, he'll grant it, and everything will be good for all of us."

* * *

"Yes, fall down on your knees and pray, Nikolasha," sneered the bearded figure watching the scene unfold from the mist emerging from his relicquary, "I enjoy any opportunity to see you humble yourself like a common fool."

"Fool, sir?" a white bat fluttered down in front of him and took a good look at the tsar praying to Serafim for a son, "I don't know. Holy fools, you know, they usually tend to..."

"Bartok, when I want your opinion, I'll ask for it!" Rasputin glared at the bat. He would have preferred not to have had a "pet," but fate had thrust Bartok upon him. During the end of his bid for total control over the Khlyst, he'd taken refuge in a cave in the Urals to escape a band of renegade Khlysts bent on eliminating him, and had found the bat inside, and was amazed that it could in fact speak. Although speak was an understatement, for it seemed Bartok never shut up about anything; all that night while he waited for his enemies to give up the pursuit, Bartok had peppered him with his whole backstory and revealed all the adventures he'd had in the years prior. He'd seemed especially keen to tell of one recent tale, one that involved something about a bear and a prince; Rasputin hadn't cared to pay attention to the whole thing. And he couldn't shake off his new-found "friend" either; Bartok had been awed when the sorcerer had told him he was on a vital quest and had offered his services, refusing to take no for an answer until Rasputin had caved in and let him join as his companion just to shut him up. But at least the bat was loyal and could be trusted.

He stepped away from the relicquary and started pacing in a circle on the stone floor of the Khlyst citadel atop Ipatiev Mountain. It had been in ruins when he'd arrived (it hadn't been too hard to find; Ipatiev Mountain was the only peak in the Urals on which nothing grew at all), but a few quick swishes of the relic had restored the fortress to its prime. It had been built over the spot where the Khlyst's founding pact with the Dark Forces had been made, and had been the Master Khlysts' place of respite when they ruled Russia and the site of the last stand of a group of diehards after the order had fallen from power. Now it was back in Khlyst control, and Rasputin had been pleased to find numerous dark spell books had been hidden in secret compartments all over the citadel that the Romanovs' troops had never found that he could use to continue his revenge.

It had been a long road to reach the position he was now, finally secure as leader of the Khlyst. His first task after fleeing Verkhoturye had been exacting payback on Mitya for allowing Makary to be betrayed; they'd only found pieces of him afterwards. Then, he'd had to fight his way to gain control of the organization, as many other Khlysts had refused to accept someone they hadn't heard of as their new overlord. But the power of the relicquary had been stronger than their numbers; by his estimate he'd sent over a hundred dark sorcerers to their graves with it before all resistance to his rule had collapsed, and the remaining Khlysts had accepted him as their leader. And so, secure in his position, he had earlier in the year finally enacted his revenge on Makary's betrayers, who would cause no more trouble for the Khlyst or anyone else now. Which freed up his schedule to concentrate wholly on bringing down the Romanovs.

"If they do have an heir," he mused out loud, continuing his pacing, "That may present an opportunity. Or perhaps one of the princesses could be the answer. I have to know what the future holds before I can make a move."

"Well unfortunately sir, you know what they say about the future; it becomes the past quicker than you realize," Bartok offered a questionable piece of advice. Rasputin chose to ignore him. "If there is a son, I can make sure I have control...yes, but only if their prayers are answered," he thought out loud, "Well, the Dark Forces can show me the truth."

He seized hold of the relicquary and thrust it up into the air, where it started glowing bright green and levitated in midair. "Tell me, Dark Forces," the sorcerer commanded as smoke poured from the dark object, "Will the tsar be granted the son he yearns for!?"

* * *

ONE YEAR LATER...

"Something's gone wrong," Nicholas was mumbling out loud, pacing in circles himself in the hall outside his wife's room.

"You don't know that, Nicholas," his brother, having come to the palace for the occasion once word had spread that Alexandra had gone into labor yet again, tried to reassure him, "I remember Tatiana took about this long as well, right mother?"

"Yes, Michael, I remember," Maria Feodorovna nodded. Michael had always been her husband's favorite child; indeed, there had been times Alexander had confided in her that he thought Michael was better suited for the throne than Nicholas, more fit in the mold of a tsar. This had caused undue stress between the brothers over the years, as Nicholas had long felt pushed aside by Alexander and written off by him. Still, Michael had always been there so far when the tsar had needed it, the present included.

"What will the people say, what will the court say if it's another girl, or if there's no baby in the end at all," Nicholas wasn't placated, "I can't face them with that; they'll want Alix's head for failing again."

"Well maybe you should trying going to the Holy Land then?" Michael proposed, "That's the next logical step after visiting Serafim of..."

"Listen!" Marie spoke up loudly, pressing her head against the door. Indeed, the wailings of a child could be heard inside. "Could it be...?" the tsar was sweating profusely, "Is this finally...?"

The door to the room burst open. "Congratulations, your Majesty," the doctor greeted him with a wide smile, "You have an heir."

Everyone in the hall roared in delight (excepting Olga, who looked a hair disappointed). "At last," the tears of joy flowed from Nicholas's eyes. "Count Fredericks," he called the the chief court minister up the hall, "Ring out the city's bells at once! The people need to join in the celebration!" He turned back to the doctor. "Can I see him now?"

"If you'll be quiet," the doctor told him.

The tsar eagerly bounded into his wife's room. The dowager empress was smiling as she rose up to follow her sons and grandchildren inside. At last the dynasty's prayers had been answered. "Come on," she picked Anastasia up off the floor, where she'd been drawing a picture of what her grandmother guessed was an estimation of what her brother might look like, "Your brother's finally here. Let's go meet him."

The girl giggled happily. "Well, this is a weight off my shoulder, Mother," Michael asided in her ear as they entered the room together, "I won't have to be in one hundred percent perfect health at all times now."

"Still, Michael, try not to do anything to get yourself killed in the next few years," Maria Feodorovna advised him, "Just in case anything happens to go wrong..."

She dared not contemplate any such thoughts further, and they were put out of her mind anyway when she approached the empress's bed. Alexandra was smiling warmly at a bundle in her arms. "He's so handsome and he's not even a minute or two old," she was crying with joy as well.

"He's everything I hoped he'd be," Nicholas bent over his child. "Hello there, Son. Welcome to the world. There's so much waiting for you in this life."

"What are we going to name him?" Tatiana inquired, staring intently at her brother.

"Well, I think it will be...Alexei," the tsar snapped his fingers, "After Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich from our dynasty's earliest days."

"Good old Tsar Alexei, always your favorite," Michael half-joked, "But you sure you don't want to have a Nicholas III?"

"There've been enough Nicholases and Alexanders ruling Russia over the last century as it is, Michael; he needs to be able to stand out," Nicholas told him. "Don't you, Alexei?" he picked the child up gingerly and held him in front of his face, "You're going to be special, so you deserve to stand out."

Anastasia whimpered and extended her arms towards the baby. "I think she wants a chance to hold him, Nicholas," the dowager empress told her son.

"Very well. But be careful with him, Anastasia," the tsar handed the baby to his youngest daughter. He needn't have worried, though, for Anastasia cuddled Alexei close and held him still, which in fact made Alexei stop crying. "How sweet," Alexandra gushed, "They know they're family."

She leaned up in bed and embraced her husband. "Everything's perfect now," she said happily, "Nothing could ruin what we have now."

* * *

"Blood of a salamander, yolk of a viper's egg, a pinch of yew..." Rasputin rambled off a list of ingredients as he mixed up a magical potion inside a flask inside his citadel later that evening. The liquid inside bubbled a deep black and jerked about, threatening to spill to the floor. "Uh, I think you put a little too much in there, sir," Bartok landed on a spell book next to his master's work station, "It's going to blow any minute now."

"It HAS to be this intense, Bartok, or the curse won't work right," Rasputin informed him, "If I'm to have the tsarevich under my thumb, I need him weakened as much as possible by the spell. Now where's that last ingredient...yes, here, four teardrops of an owl, and...!"

He dropped the owl teardrops into the concoction, which turned red and started bubbling. A sick smile crossed the sorcerer's face as he gently carried it to the large caudron in the center of the chamber. Sure, the tsar may have gotten his son, but it was going to be a gift he was going to regret once the curse was enacted.

"Stand clear," he instructed Bartok, "This is contagious." Thus, he himself stepped back a few paces before he tossed the flask into the cauldron. With an explosion, a red column of magic rose to the ceiling. And now for the final touch. He seized the relicquary from the nearest table and aimed it at the column. A green misty demon-like creature emerged from the skull's mouth and flew straight into the column. It emerged on the other side glowing red itself. "Go," Rasputin pointed at the window near the ceiling, "Fulfill your dark purpose and bind the heir to me."

The demon flew up and out the window. Rasputin cackled maniacally. Revenge against the tsar was close at hand. "I still don't see why we have to do it this way, sir," Bartok had to tell him, "I mean, why don't we try the old kidnapping ploy; you know, the old 'Give me your throne if you ever want to see him alive again' routine? That would make a lot more sense if we wanted..."

"Because, you miserable rodent, the tsar has to suffer beyond words for his crimes against me and the Khlyst," Rasputin explained shortly, "Which means his precious little son must suffer. And as long as the curse remains in effect-and only I can release it-the child WILL suffer, and the ruler of all Russia will need the Khlyst to keep his throne."

He set the relicquary down on the table. From the mist emerged an image of the demon soaring out of the Urals. It crossed large fields and wide rivers before finally approaching St. Petersburg. It swooped around the top of tall buildings across the city before approaching the Winter Palace. It circled once around before zooming in through an open window. There, Alexei lay sound asleep in his crib, unaware of the danger approaching. He continued sleeping while the demon flew straight towards him, landed on his back, reared up, and bit down. There was a bright flash of red before the room returned to darkness as if nothing had happened, and with no trace of the demon in the room at all. Back in the citadel, however, Rasputin was in pure bliss. "It is done!" he shouted in glee, twirling around in circles in delight, "The heir to the throne belongs wholly to me!"

"So, now what then?" Bartok asked, confused by the whole spectacle, "Does this whole thing start right away, because I can't see..."

"We'll wait until the effects of the curse come to the tsar's attention," Rasputin informed him, unable to suppress his pleased laughter, "And when they do, the sovereign of all Russia will come begging to me help once he hears of me."

* * *

ANOTHER YEAR LATER...

Something was definitely very wrong. Maria Feodorovna had guessed as much from Tatiana's hysterical state on the phone. She'd managed to make out from her grandchild's incoherent ramblings that Alexei had fallen out of his crib and there was blood everywhere. To have lost the child so quickly after so happy a birth...and to know it would have broken Nicholas's heart and soul...

Her feeling of dread didn't get any better as she rushed through the front doors of the Winter Palace. Normally things were bustling and servants could be seen everywhere. Today, however, everything was almost deathly quiet, and it was completely deserted except for a worried Tatiana near the end of the entrance hall, apparently waiting for her arrival. "Tatiana!" she waved her forward, pure fear in her voice rising up, "Is he...!?"

"He's alive, Grandma, but the doctors really seem worried about something," Tatiana shook her head, panicked herself, "I've never seen anyone bleed like that, it's almost as if..."

"Tatiana!" it was Marie running down the stairs from the private quarters, "Go find Nurse Vishnakova; Mama just fainted when the doctors said Alexei has a hemisphere or something like that!"

"Oh no..." the dowager empress's heart froze. All that blood...it could only mean...which could mean the dynasty...

She found herself rushing up the stairs as fast as her aging legs could manage. The scene outside the heir's room was one of pure chaos; Alexandra was indeed sprawled unconscious on the floor, trying to be revived by several of the numerous doctors bustling about. Nicholas himself was slumped limply against the wall, pale white. "Nicholas," she braked to a stop right in front of him, "Please tell me it isn't...!"

"Hemophilia," her son confirmed it for her, too stunned to even look at her, "And Dr. Derevenko says the chance of recovery from it is practically zero."

"I'm afraid so, your Highness," the leading doctor shook his head sadly at the dowager empress, "There's just no way he can ever live a normal life, I'm afraid."

"None..." Maria Feodorovna couldn't find any further words to sum it up. She glanced a crestfallen look at Alexei's crib. He had stopped bleeding now, and seemed happy enough as he played a sort of hand-slapping game with Anastasia through the bars, unaware of the huge pall that now hung over him and the entire family.

"Nonetheless we have to try for a miracle," there was sudden resolve in Nicholas's voice behind her.

"What are you saying?" she turned to him, puzzled, "You can't cure hemophilia, Nicholas, it's a sad truth of..."

"Nothing's impossible with God's help," a steeled look came into his face, "There's got to be plenty of faith healers in the far reaches of Russia; surely one of them can intercede and save Alexei. Somehow we've got to find them no matter what it takes!"


	3. A False Messiah

"St. Petersburg," Rasputin mumbled with a slick smile, trudging up the Nevsky Prospect as city life bustled all around him, "Swimming with wealthy, contented fools who don't know what's going to overcome them, and scores of greedy weaklings hungry for power who will happily join me. Yes, soon I'll be lord of it all."

"Yes indeed, sir, and I hear the nightlife is good too in this town," Bartok remarked on his shoulders. He'd clearly been to the capital before, for there was no awe in his voice at the sights of urban life around them. "There's probably loads of female bats everywhere that would love to have a romantic evening with a..."

"Will you forget your libido!?" Rasputin snarled at his "sidekick," "We're here on official business! Just remember to keep your mouth shut at the seminary and the palace; they'll get suspicious if I come in with a bat running its mouth off!"

"No problem sir, zipping it now, not saying another word, being completely silent," Bartok rambled to silence, relieving the sorcerer. Official advertisements announcing the need for a faith healer at the palace had started circulating a few weeks ago. He'd held off coming to St. Petersburg for a while-it would be better to get the tsar frustrated thinking a reasonable healer couldn't be found-but had decided the previous night that the time was at last ripe. Now he just had to convincingly pass himself off as an actual churchman. Luckily the phony testimonials he'd had his most loyal Khlyst followers sign stating that he'd healed them would go a long way.

"Here we are," he proclaimed, coming to a stop outside the St. Petersburg Theological Seminary, training ground for priests of the future, "Our ticket to the palace lies within."

He tapped his robe. The relicquary was stashed away in a hidden pocket where no one could see it. It was now working, and all would be set when he made his appearance at the palace. Confident, he strode up the steps to the seminary's door and tapped hard on it. "Yes?" a bearded priest opened it.

"Could you tell me where I may locate Bishop Feofan, kind sir?" the sorcerer asked with feigned humbleness.

"I am Bishop Feofan," the priest told him, "How may I help you?"

"You may help me greatly, and in so doing help others," Rasputin dug out his fake testimonials, "Allow me to introduce myself..."

* * *

"Presenting Matriona the Barefoot of Omsk," the courier announced at the far end of the throne room. Nicholas shuffled around on his throne. "I hope this one will at least be able to tell us something useful about curing Alexei's problem," he asided to his wife next to him, "If we get another one that speaks in riddles..."

"Shhh," Alexandra hissed. "Matriona the Barefoot," she greeted the old woman than knelt before them, "We have called you here on a matter of state importance. Tell us, how do your healing powers that you say you have work?"

Matriona glanced grandly up at the sky. "All gold of face, for fourteen eons, the rivers flow strong through the valley of no return," she started rambling at the top of her lungs, "Round about, inside out, chase the shadow through the well, over, under, back, through, strong is the cape that ripples like the...!"

"Thank you," Nicholas raised his hand, unable to suppress a rolling of his eyes, "You may go now. Next please," he called to the courtier as several guards ushered a befuddled Matriona out of the throne room.

"Presenting Daria Osipova of Perm," the courtier announced the next potential candidate. A younger woman wearing chains sauntered in next. "Daria Osipova, you have been called her on important business," the tsarina repeated her greeting as the next would-be healer approached their thrones, "Show us how you heal those who you claim to have cured."

For a moment Daria stood stone still. Then she let out an ear-splitting wail and started rolling around on the floor, convulsing. The tsar slapped a hand to his face. "Thank you," he said loudly, "You may go...by all means PLEASE go!"

A pair of guards carried the rejected healer out, still shrieking loudly. "This is a nightmare, honestly," Nicholas confided in his wife, shaking his head, "I'll bet half these people are just charlatans looking for a quick ruble. Maybe we should just call John of Kronstadt and see what he can do with Alexei."

"We have to choose someone from the common masses," Alexandra shook her head firmly, "John is too connected to the hierarchy; we need to connect with the people for this. Only someone like them who loves and respects us with all their souls can truly cure Alexei."

"Well I hope they come soon; I don't know how much more of this I can take, even for our son's sake," her husband shook his head again, looking deeply frazzled, "Next please," he called to the courtier again.

"Your Majesty," the courtier had been talking through the door during Daria's wailing to someone, "Allow me to present Bishop Feofan of the St. Petersburg Theological Seminary with a special visitor."

"Ah," the tsar looked relieved. Feofan was well known in the capital for his deeply holy stances and ascetic lifestyle. He could probably ascertain a true messenger from God better than anyone. "Bishop, welcome," he greeted Feofan as he walked into the throne room and bowed humbly at their feet, "To what to we owe this visit?"

"Your Majesty, I have heard of your quest for a healer from God and have been keeping a lookout for any that may fit that criteria," Feofan told him, "I am delighted to say I have come across such a person who may be able to help you." He rose up and turned towards the throne room doors, "Allow me to present for you Father Rasputin of Pokrovskoe."

An unexpected burst of wind blew through the open windows of the throne room as Rasputin strode slowly in towards the monarchs, Bartok fluttering up to the rafter where he'd be out of the way. "Your Emminences," he forced a smile as he fell down before them, "I am but a simple country holy man who has traveled from afar when I received word our sovereigns needed help."

"The bishop vouches for you. How many healings have you undertaken?" Alexandra grilled him.

"In the last three years, I have healed a dozen persons afflicted with varying severe illnesses," the sorcerer told her with forced sycophancy, "And I never ask for anything in return but for simple thanks, as would be God's own way of doing things."

"Here is the complete list of his achievements, your Highness," Feofan handed the testimonials to the tsarina, "I must admit it is an impressive resume; certainly more impressive than any I've seen in my tenure."

Alexandra's eyes widened as she read the phony reports. "Look at this," she waved her husband to lean over and look himself, "Father Rasputin made a lame child's lost leg grow back through prayer..."

"...Amazing; he healed cancer of the lungs with a simple touch," the tsar himself was impressed. "Well Father," he turned to Rasputin, "It appears you may be the right man for the job we ask. Of course, you'll have to prove yourself, though."

"I look forward to showing your Majesty the wonderful things I am capable of," Rasputin shot a glance at the back of the throne room. If he'd timed it right, any minute now...

"Mama, Papa!" came the frightened cry from the outside hall at that exact moment. He nodded; right on time. A panicked Marie came barrelling into the throne room. "Mama, Papa, Alexei's bleeding again; he fell off his toy chest; it's worse than ever; I don't know if we can stop it this time!" she spilled out breathless to them.

"All right, all right, calm down," her father put an arm around her, but he looked panicked too. "Did you call the doctors!?"

"Olga put the call in, but I don't know if they'll get here in time this time; he's really bleeding bad; Grandma can't stop it either!" the girl cried.

"Well, help might be here right now, so don't be too scared just yet," he handed her to her mother. "Father," he turned to Rasputin gravely, "It appears your powers may be needed sooner than later. What I am about to tell you must remain a state secret for the good of the dynasty. The heir suffers from a rare condition that causes excessive bleeding at the slightest provocation. None of our efforts to solve it have worked so far."

Rasputin feigned a horrified gasp to coincide with Feofan's genuine one. "Well if that is true, your Majesty, we haven't a moment to lose right now," the bishop tried to retain his composure. "Father, let us see what you have."

"Lead me to the child, and I will do what I can," Rasputin vowed.

"This way, then, and quickly," Alexandra bustled rapidly out of the throne room. The sorcerer suppressed a snicker, flashing a wink at Bartok as the bat silently swooped down and followed them. The trusting fools had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

Loud cried easily identified the tsarevich's room. "Alexei, please hold still!" he could hear the dowager empress desperately pleading her grandson inside. The full horrible effect of his curse could be seen once he appeared in the doorway; blood was all over the floor, and the baby was writhing in agony in his grandmother's arms. "I don't know if any help will be in time this time, Nicholas, the...who is this!?" the former empress's eyes narrowed at the sight of the sorcerer.

"Allow me to introduce Father Rasputin; he says he can heal Alexei," the tsar told her.

"Another quack!?" Olga sarcastically snorted from the corner, holding onto a tearful Anastasia, looking desperate to break away and help her brother.

"I assure you, my dear, that my powers are truly from God," Rasputin bowed deeply to her, "Now," he addressed the whole room, "We must all work together on this. Place the child in the crib and step back."

Maria Feodorovna maintained a suspicious frown, but did as asked. "Now I must ask all of you present to kneel and pray as hard as you can," the sorcerer instructed everyone, "With a case this severe, we will need all the prayers we can muster. I will intercede for God's mercy on the child."

Everyone did as he asked. Rasputin approached the crib. "Don't be afraid, Alexei Nikolaevich," he whispered with forced gentleness at the screaming baby, "It is merely I, Father Rasputin, come to ease your suffering. Do not cry; you do not suffer anymore."

He bent and pretended to pray. After a minute's wait to make it look like authentic prayer, he glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then tapped the relicquary in his pocket. The warm feeling in his robe from the relicquary's glowing dissipated, signifying the end of the curse-for now. Immediately Alexei stopped bleeding-moreover, the blood started evaporating as the child grew calmer. "Yes, yes!" he exclaimed with mock ecstasy, "God has heard your prayers! See for yourselves!"

"I don't believe it!" Alexandra was ecstatic herself as she rushed to crib and lifted her now healthy son up. "Oh thank you, Father!" she couldn't stop herself from hugging the sorcerer, "We can't begin to express our gratitude...!"

"Your kind words are reward enough for me," he said robotically.

"Still," Nicholas was almost laughing in delight as he took hold of his son and hugged him in relief, "We must insist on a reward of some kind, Father. Where are you living now?"

"I just arrived in the city this morning after a journey of three weeks," he said-not exactly a lie, given he had flown from Ipatiev Mountain thanks to the relic that morning.

"Well you can stay in St. Petersburg from now on, in the best apartment we can get for you," Nicholas told him, bending down to hand Alexei off to Anastasia, eagerly tugging his leg with a smile on her face now that Alexei was all right again, "And you will have free access to this palace or any other royal palace from here on, I so decree."

"Well if your Majesty insists, I humbly accept," Rasputin bowed, "Now if my services are not needed any further at the moment, I shall take my leave and await your apartment. The Bishop here has offered me lodging until that time, so I will be at the Seminary if you need me further."

"We will call if we need you. And thank you, Bishop, for directing him to us," Nicholas thanks Feofan as well.

"Simply performing my duty to the sovereign, your Majesty," Feofan bowed himself, "I feel honored to have delivered such a messenger of God to help you. Well Father, let us be on our way."

"After you," Rasputin gestured to the doorway. The two of them walked out and back down the stairs to the front door. "Go in peace," Nicholas was grateful enough to wave them goodbye. "Well Mother, at last our problems have been..." he stopped when he saw his mother's still-suspicious look as she eyed Rasputin's back disappearing down the stairs. "What's the matter, Mother, do you doubt Father Rasputin's holiness?" he asked, surprised, "You yourself saw him heal our son in there; that was clearly an act from God helping us."

"I saw, Nicholas, and I'm grateful Alexei will be all right," Maria Feodorovna's eyes narrowed at Rasputin as he disappeared from her sight, "But I have a feeling that something just wasn't right in there."


	4. Suspicions and Murder

AUGUST 1911

LIVADIA PALACE, CRIMEA

"...it soon became known as the Time of Troubles among the people for good reason indeed," Maria Feodorovna solemnly told her grandchildren, seated on the floor before her in the front parlor of the newly constructed palace overlooking the Black Sea, "The vile Khlyst and their paid mercenaries ravaged the land at will, attacking and killing anyone they pleased whenever they felt like it, stealing anything they wished from anyone they wished, burying the people under oppressive taxes. From inside the Kremlin, the Master Khlysts continuously conspired to devise new and terrible means of oppression, including conjuring up blizzards in the heat of summer to destroy all the crops and starve the people out of sheer malicious pleasure. Any who crossed them paid savagely; few have long forgotten the fate of the town of Vologda, which they set about wiping off the face of the earth after the town bishop preached against their rule in a fiery sermon; every human being and even all the pets were murdered, and the town obliterated through terrible magic so that no trace remained. Every month, a young and pure woman in each district would be forcibly taken to Moscow and sacrificed in one of their terrible rituals..are you all right, Alexei?"

"Oh, of course, Grandma," he said quickly, but she could see the unease on his face from the story, as if it was deeply getting to him. "There's no need to feel ashamed about being upset, Alexei; this tale appalled me as well when I first heard it from your great-grandfather after I first came to Russia," she comforted him gently, nonetheless deciding it would probably be best at the moment not to go into detail on exactly what the Khlysts had done to each selected virgin as part of their horrible rituals before sacrificing them.

"Then why are you telling it to him if it's clear he can't take it?" Olga complained.

"I can take it," her brother protested.

"Oh sure, you've been..."

"All right, all right," their grandmother held up her hands to restore order. "I'm getting to the best part now, Alexei," she reassured her grandson, "And the worst is behind us from here." She took a deep, dramatic breath. "Your ancestor, Michael Romanov held many lands at the time, and was a distant relative of the murdered tsar, although the Khlysts did not know this at first," she continued, "When the terror first swept over the lands, he grew scared and fled, taking refuge in a monastery outside Kostroma whose monks had long been sheltering victims of the Khlyst oppression. But the longer he stayed, the more ashamed he'd felt about running, the more he felt he should have done more to protect the people. And so it was that after about a year and a half in exile, he was awakened one night by cries of anguish outside, and saw outside his window a band of Khlysts dragging out into the night the Susanin family who lived nearby and whom he'd become quite friendly with, demanding to know where he was. As they started torturing them to get answers, Michael Romanov finally decided it was time to take a stand. He charged out and defeated the Khlysts, and swore an oath with the Susanins as witnesses that he would rid the country of the terror once and for all. And so he gathered together supporters and headed straight for Moscow."

She dramatically rose up. "In the face of impossible odds, they swept forward, defeating the Khlysts at every turn, driving them all back to the capital," she proclaimed grandly, raising her arms high for dramatic effect, "It culminated in a pitched battle all throughout Moscow, and not even the Khlysts' tactic of setting the entire city ablaze with their powers could stop the army of the people. Soon the battle reached the Kremlin itself, and in the heat of the fight, Michael Romanov found himself atop the Ivan the Great Bell Tower in a duel with the Master Khlyst Otrepiev, most powerful of them all. Their fight raged back and forth, but just as Otrepiev was about to finish him for good, your ancestor knocked away his dark reliquary into the recesses of the bell tower and hurled him over the edge, where he was impaled below on one of the iron stakes he'd had set up outside to impale his own victims. With the Khlysts defeated and driven into exile, Michael Romanov was appointed the new tsar by the grateful people, and so our line continues to this day. Didn't I tell you it would get better, Alexei?"

"Yes," the boy nodded softly, appearing to have taken the evil sorcerer's impaling surprisingly well, "But they won't be coming back, will they?"

"Of course not, because the whole thing's a fairy tale," Olga scoffed, "Just a scary story meant to make sure we all behave nicely and..."

"It's not a fairy tale; it's written down in all the books in the palace library, for your information; I read about most of it," Tatiana scowled at her sister, "No, they're not coming back," she assured her brother, "It's been almost three hundred years now; logic says they would have made their move by now..."

"Perhaps, Tatiana, perhaps," her grandmother said softly, "Of course, though, there is the matter that Otrepiev reportedly shouted at Michael Romanov as he plunged to his death that one day, another Master Khylst would arise, more powerful than he and all his cohorts combined, who would make the order more powerful than before and exterminate every last Romanov in revenge."

"Which, as the bookworm here pointed out, was so long ago that none of them can possibly be left, not after the last leader died right after Father rose to the throne," Olga retorted, "As I said, it's all a morality tale."

"And I feel a good one, Olga, for I've always felt that they who choose not to learn from history are doomed to repeat it," the dowager told her, "But enough about that tale. What shall the next story be?"

"Well, you never have told us about your marriage to Grandpa yet," Anastasia spoke up.

"Not that one AGAIN," Olga rolled her eyes, "I've heard that one at least half a dozen times..."

"Well some of us haven't," her youngest sister retorted, putting at arm around her brother.

"I'll tell you all what; while some of you have heard of the wedding, I don't think any of you have heard of the reception afterwards yet," the dowager chuckled at the pleasant memories, "The wedding had been beautiful, and all the guests had gathered for us to do the first dance-only your grandfather refused to go out. He was scared stiff of dancing. Imagine that if you will: he would rule the country very firmly during his time on the throne, but he was scared that he didn't know how to dance. All night long, I was basically leading him along, and he copied my every move as best he could. From that day on, though, he refused to dance publicly again."

She sighed contentedly at the joyful memories of years gone by. "And afterwards, we had the most magical honeymoon you can imagine," she continued, "His father, your great-grandfather, arranged for us to spend three whole weeks in Paris-truly a magical city if there ever was one. Those would become the happiest days of my life. Your grandfather would rent a boat, and we'd row down the Seine together. And on some nights, we'd simply walk the boulevards hand in hand, watching the trees blossom and the birds sing. I'll admit, there are times when it's snowing heavily that I think back to that magical time, and it makes me feel so much better about everything. Someday," she stared dreamily out the window, not really taking in the Black Sea billowing in the afternoon sun, "I'd like to go back and relive it all again."

"We should all go someday," Tatiana proposed, "It would be nice to get out of the country for a change. Sometimes I think Father's afraid something will happen if we..."

"Kids," their mother stuck her head through the veranda door, "Father Rasputin's here."

"I distinctly don't remember him getting an invitation to this palace's dedication, Alexandra," the dowager frowned.

"I sent him one of my own. A special privilege invitation," there was distinct disdain in her daughter-in-law's voice. Her children eagerly ran off to greet Rasputin; Anastasia, however, hung behind. "Grandmama," she had to ask, "Why don't you like Father Rasputin? You've seen what he does to help Alexei..."

"Yes, I have seen, but it's just...there's just something about him, Anastasia, that says to me he may not be trustworthy in the long run," the dowager admitted.

"I wish the two of you could get along better; I'm sure you both have so much in common," the girl remarked. She walked over to the window and stared out at the Black Sea herself. "Tatiana had a point, though; why can't we go more places? There's so much of the world I'd love to see if I had a chance."

Maria Feodorovna sighed softly; how could one explain the nuances of social discord to a seven-year-old? Then she realized there was at least one easy answer. "Well, sweetheart," she began, "I suppose your father's still on edge in some ways after he was attacked in Japan a few years before you were born..."

"What?" her granddaughter's eyes flew wide open.

"Oh he was all right in the end," the dowager reassured her, "And don't worry about that man; he's safely locked up; they found he wasn't right in the head. But having someone come at him with a sword clearly bent on killing him scared your father deeply, and I suppose deep down he's always been worried the same thing might happen to you or your brother and sisters if he wasn't careful. And in a way, he's also following the precident your grandfather set after his father was killed by the revolutionaries shortly after I married him; Alexander, your grandfather, decided at that point it would be best if we stayed in our palaces from that point on."

"But why should we feel afraid of the people, Grandmama? Why wouldn't they like us?"

The dowager sighed again; another tricky path to tread. "Well, Anastasia, it's not as easy in Russia as you might think," she told her, "Some point think it isn't fair we have such a good life while they don't. Others are just naturally angry people who like spreading hate and destruction. And the Duma sometimes thinks we control too much, that they should have more of a say. The way your father tries to navigate all of this might..."

"Ah, my dear Anastasia, there you are," Rasputin stuck his head in the veranda door, "And looking lovlier than ever, I see."

"Thank you, Father. Oh, and you've brought that bat again too," with a smile, she extended a finger for Bartok to land on. He swan-dove towards it, only to stop inches from it and gently touch down. "Father, tell Grandmama some of your favorite sayings, the ones you always tell us when you visit in St. Petersburg," she encouraged him.

"I would be delighted to," Rasputin swelled up in a regal posture. "Several of my teachings that I am most proud of," he proclaimed grandly, "One should know what the most valuable thing in one's life is. When you do, you know what is important. Aim then for that goal no matter what."

"Mm hmm," Maria Feodorovna remarked dryly, unimpressed with such stupefying commonplace knowledge.

"Another," Rasputin swelled up again, "Don't believe in the church bureaucracy; their medals are all that matter to them. Truly holiness is found where you will least expect it."

"A sentiment I fully believe in as well, Father," Nicholas himself appeared from the veranda, "I hope you've found the palace was worth what we sunk into it to build it."

"It couldn't have turned out any better, your Majesty," Rasputin said with a faked humble bow, "Your daughter was just having me tell your dear mother some of my favorite teachings."

"I see. Well, Anastasia," he bent down to her level, smiling, "I'm just about done with the prime minister, so why don't you get ready, and we'll see if you can beat me to that big rock off shore this year."

"Can't Alexei come too this time?" the girl looked somber, "He was almost ready to cry last year when Mama told him he couldn't go..."

The tsar bowed head. "I wish he could, sweetheart, but we can't take the chance of him hurting himself, even with the Father here," he said regretfully, "Maybe some other time...well, I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"Your Majesty..." called an impatient voice from the veranda.

"Just a minute Mr. Stolypin, if you please," Nicholas called back authoritatively. "Run along now, and don't worry too much about your brother," he patted Anastasia on the head, trying to sugarcoat it for her, "Maybe your mother can row him out to watch us."

Anastasia didn't look placated, but left for her quarters anyway. "Oh, Father, I don't think you've met the prime minister yet," Nicholas told the faux holy man, "Why don't I introduce the two of you now?"

"It would be an honor, your Majesty," Rasputin snapped his fingers to bring Bartok back to him, and followed the tase out onto the veranda. The dowager in turn followed him; she preferred not to take her eyes off him when he was around if she could help it. "Father Rasputin, Peter Stolypin," Nicholas introduced the two of them, "You both may be seeing more of each other soon; I've invited the father to join us for the ceremonies in Kiev next month, Mr. Stolypin."

"I've heard so much about you, Prime Minister," Rasputin suppressed a glare as he shook the large bearded man's hand, "Namely how you've had so many people wearing your neckties, so to speak, over the last few years..."

"The measured I authorized during the period of major unrest a few years ago were absolutely necessarily to restore order, Father," Stolypin said defensively, "Of course, from now on we must make sure the people never consider revolting again, which is why I consider it imperative to push my land reform package through the Duma as soon as possible..."

"Never mind pushing that through, just push all those malcontents out when you get the chance," Alexandra snorted from the nearest table, cuddling Alexei as he drew a picture, "It's clear to me they won't stop until they've reduced my son to nothing; Nicholas and I want him to rule unhindered and freely."

"Your Highness, I'm afraid time has passed absolutism in the empire behind, and nothing can bring it back; not even the most conservative Duma will allow it, and I think we need to be pragmatic about that from here on," Stolypin shook his head.

"Oh I wouldn't be completely sure of that, Prime Minister; less likely things have happened before," Rasputin said, fingering the relic under his robes.

"Whatever, Father. At any rate, your Majesty," Stolypin turned back to the tsar, "as I was saying, this land reform bill should be fast-tracked as soon as possible; if the peasants are allowed to buy up the maximum amount of land allotted in the bill-at least triple what they can have now, I may add-and are allowed to earn enough money from the land's development to be reasonably well off, then none of them will ever consider taking up arms against you again. To elaborate on my early point on the matter..."

"Yes, well, hold that thought, Mr. Stolypin; I did promise my daughters I'd go swimming with them this afternoon," Nicholas held up his hand, "Wait here until we're finished. Father, you may continue exploring the palace if you wish until I get back," he informed Rasputin.

"I would delighted, your Majesty. After you," Rasputin gestured him inside the palace. "Well, we may as well leave the prime minister on his own then, Alexei," the tsarina lowered him gently to the ground, "Why don't we go take a walk on the beach?"

"Again?" he looked sad, "Why can't I go swimming with my sisters, just this once?"

"I'm sorry, Sunshine, but you could hurt yourself, and none of us want to see that happen, even with the Father here now," she shot a sad glance of her own through the door Rasputin had walked through before glumly leading her son down the steps to the sand below. Stolypin watched them go curiously. "Is something wrong with the heir?" he asked the dowager as she sat down at his table.

"It is a family matter, Prime Minister," Maria Feodorovna said quickly; although she wasn't entirely convinced Nicholas's official policy of keeping Alexei's illness a state secret was the right one, she was going to abide by it unless the situation explicitly called for doing otherwise, "Tell me," she leaned forward, "How exactly is the Duma's mood at the present?"

"Mostly rational at the moment, your Highness, but I do hope your son treads correctly with the land reform bill and everything else being proposed currently, or there's sure to be more flair-ups of denunciation," Stolypin informed her, "And if that does happen, I sincerely hope he doesn't try to disband the legislature again; almost every party has made it clear they won't submit to it this time. Actually, if I may speak freely," it was his turn to lean forward, "I couldn't help feeling the presence of your late husband's spirit when he read the last disbandment order out loud, given that was something he would have done at the drop of a hat. Seeing how well your son the current tsar does with his family, it surprises me sometimes he would consider following your husband's path..."

"If I may speak confidentially, Prime Minister, I've long felt Nicholas has been trying harder than he needs to to live up to Alexander's legacy," Maria Feodorovna told him, "If you could in fact call it a legacy in hindsight, that is; lately," she sighed deeply, "I can't help wondering if so many of Alexander's policies were misguided, namely sending the police out to crush any and all dissent and supporting official pogroms, both of which I feel were major factors in the all the recent unrest. But Alexander cut a strong figure, rightly or wrongly, and Nicholas has been trying to live up to that, trying to impress his father even after he's now long gone by doing what he thinks Alexander might have. To be completely honest, Mr. Stolypin-and you're the first person I'm telling this, and I hope the last-there was a time before his death that Alexander wanted to make Michael the heir, feeling he was better suited for the role. Perhaps he is in some ways, but Nicholas had done the best he could under the conditions he was given to ready himself to be ruler, and it was only through intense pleading and a few words from me that Alexander relented and kept him as the heir."

She sighed again and stared out at the sea once more. "Sometimes I think he'd just be happier away from all this, just himself and the children," she confessed, "He doesn't have the determined streak his father did, and in his profession, that can't be a virtue, even if it is elsewhere; if enough of his enemies seize on his compassion as a weakness..."

"Presenting Bishop Feofan," the nearest footman unexpectedly announced. The two of them turned to see Feofan striding towards them, a briefcase in hand, looking surprisingly haggard and worried. "Your Highness, Prime Minister," he greeted them both, "Is the tsar available? I must have a word with him if I could."

"He went to swim with the children. We will be willing to hear you out for him, however, Bishop," the dowager told him, "Please, sit."

"Thank you," Feofan slid into the chair across from her. "Your Highness, Prime Minister," he began, his face growing taut, "I must tell you that, in recent months, I've begun having doubts about Father Rasputin's professed spirituality."

"Have you now?" Maria Feodovna's eyes shot up. Apparently she wasn't the only one to think of Rasputin this way after all. "What made you come to that conclusion, Bishop?"

"Well, it has been fermenting in my mind for some time now, in particular given his increasingly lavish lifestyle since he has moved to the capital," Feofan confessed, "For a man of God, he has very much become a man of gold; lately he has been taken in huge sums of money from bankers and other moneylenders, certainly not the way a man of the cloth is supposed to go about his business in this life. There are even rumors circulating that he's agreed to do favors for them if they pay him, and that he's been offering to advance the careers of anyone who comes to him without consent from the palace. When I protested to him about all this, he insisted that God had told him to undertake this manner of work, and that all the money he was taking in would go to charity. I contacted several of the organizations he'd swore he'd donated to, however, and none have received anything from him whatsoever."

He shifted about uncomfortably. "But my opinion really solidified last week, when I was invited to a luncheon he was hosting," he continued, "I was glad I decided to leave early, for the salon that has formed around him is comprised of some of the most unscrupulous collection of rogues ever assembled. For example, my colleague Bishop Hermogen," he opened his briefcase and handed the dowager a photograph, "We were at one time close friends, but it has become increasingly clear he is narrow-minded and power-hungry, bent on reestablishing the patriarchate at all costs, with himself as absolute head. And his colleague, the monk Illiodor," he handed another photograph to Stolypin, "From what I understand, his sermons are basically extended calls for violence against those who practice Judaism. Some of my less enlightened cohorts in the priesthood may support such a stance, but I wholeheartedly do not; however, Father Rasputin visibly has no qualms associated with someone who makes such hateful statements, and seemed to hint at times that he agrees with them. Nor are they they the only questionable brothers of the cloth he associates with," he dug out more photos, "Pitirim here is a known thief of monastic funds who once assaulted his diocese's bishop; Varnava here is himself a power-mad zealot with a history of severe violence, both against his colleagues in the church and even his parishioners; Isidor...I can't tell you out loud what they accuse him of. Martemian and Augustin, they both may be murderers. But what's more disturbing," he lowered his voice, "Rumors abound in church circles that these supposed churchmen may have...may have, hard as it is to believe...severe Khlyst leanings, leading me to suspect it's possible they might even be Khlysts themselves."

"That is impossible," Stolypin scoffed, "The Khlyst were exterminated for good over fifteen years ago."

"Or so it would appear, Prime Minister. But who's to say Makary the Merciless was in fact the last Khlyst standing? We don't know how extensive the order actually was when he died," Maria Feodorovna was frowning; for a while now, she'd started to wonder just how dead the Khlyst actually were, in particular ever since Rasputin had arrived. Perhaps, she'd thought for some time, there was substance to Otrepiev's vow that a stronger Khlyst would some day rise to avenge the order. "Did anyone else at that luncheon strike you as being a possible Khlyst, Bishop?"

"Oh all of them did, your Highness," Feofan gulped at the memory of that day, digging out some more photographs, "For instance, Father Rasputin's secretary Akilina Laptinskaya is a former sister of mercy; I discovered when I inquired about her that she was dismissed from her hospital for trying to poison her patients. Leonid Molchanov here is the son of a former priest expelled from his order for Khlyst-like actions; from his conversations, it's clear the son thinks the same as the father. Vera Zhukovskaya here is rumored to be a Satan-worshipper; Alexander Pistolkors here is a former army colonel who's rumored to have overstepped his bounds during the recent unpleasantness and executed scores of Latvians without trial or even any reason. And you remember Madame Lokhtina, the state councillor's wife? She's been a supporter of Father Rasputin for three years now, and this is what she's become."

The dowager frowned at the last picture; the once lovely Madame Lokhtina was now an ugly hag. "She has apparently lost her sanity as well," Feofan told her, "Given my misgivings about all this, I felt it only right that I inform the tsar about who his appears to be dealing with."

"Well you have done the right thing, Bishop," Maria Feodorovna told him, "I will see to it the tsar is told of this immediately."

* * *

"Oh Mother, you're just overreacting," Nicholas, however, scoffed a few minutes later, standing on the veranda in his bathing uniform, looking eager to join his daughters on the sand below.

"I would take the bishop's warning seriously, Nicholas," his mother advised him, "Father Rasputin hasn't really told us that much about his past. And seeing the type of people he associates with..."

"And I don't think it's a crime to befriend sinners if you have no intention of taking up their ways," the tsar interrupted, "And there is no proof his friends are killers, so it's quite possible this is an understandable misinterpretation by the bishop. Besides, you yourself know many of the saints were associated with sinners in their earthly lifetimes."

"Your Majesty, I'm afraid I must side with the former empress on this," Stolypin stood up, "I must insist the Father be asked to account for both his friends and his excessively lavish lifestyle, which would appear to compromise..."

"I assure you, Mr. Stolypin, the Father has more than earned the right to live the lifestyle he leads," Nicholas cut him short, "Now if you have no more true crises for me, it's time to take time for my family."

"Do not just shrug this off, Nicholas," his mother gave him one last warning as he descended the stairs to the beach, "If God forbid you're wrong, and this man is dangerous..."

"He healed Alexei, Mother; what could be dangerous about someone who can do that?" the tsar almost laughed as he walked away. Maria Feodorovna shook her head grimly. "As I've said, gentlemen, my son is a good man, but he trusts far too easily," she admitted to them.

"What do we do now?" Feofan looked worried, "If the tsar won't believe what I tell him, how do we protect the royal family if I'm right?"

"We'll need more proof for one thing, Bishop. Mr. Stolypin," she turned to the prime minister, "Contact gendarme chief Dzhunkovsky once you return to the capital; tell him to covertly maintain surveillance on Father Rasputin from here on-tell him that this is exceptionally top secret, that not even Nicholas is to be informed of this. Also, have him run the names of everyone the bishop said was at that luncheon through the Department of Police's files; perhaps one or more of them have criminal records that can be used to persuade Nicholas...yes, Bishop?"

Feofan looked ill. "There is one name that will certainly be in the Department of Police's files," he told her and the prime minister, "He was seated right next to me, and made it clear all through dinner that he believes God to be a total sham. Vladimir Bonch-Bruevich was his name, and I believe he's connected to one of those large revolutionary groups that caused all the trouble for the dynasty during the unrest."

"Yes, Bonch-Bruevich of those accursed Bolsheviks that want to tear down the very fabric of society," Stolypin smiled triumphantly, "Thank you, Bishop, that's certainly an ace we can play. Knowing the Father associates with the likes of him..."

"Did I hear my name?" Rasputin stepped out onto the veranda at that moment, "Ah, Feofan, you've come to visit the tsar as well. To what...?"

"Rasputin," Feofan glowered at him, "I have told the former empress about the details of our dinner date the previous week. She and the prime minister agree you should not associate as closely with the royal family until you distance yourself from your salon and renounce your lavish lifestyle that I tell you explicitly mocks God in Heaven."

"But the tsar explicitly says he wants me on standby for the reason you and I both know at a moment's notice, Feofan," Rasputin said in mock indignation, "Now if something were to go wrong..."

"Father," Stolypin warned him, "Do not play coy with us. We will find if you are misleading the tsar, and if you are nothing more than a charlatan..."

"I assure you, Mr. Stolypin, I am indeed a messenger of God," Rasputin stared right into his face, "In fact, last week, he gave me a vision that you will very soon be departing your post."

"I most certainly will not," Stolypin frowned, "I have the tsar's complete confidence at this time. Now if you have seen the palace in full, I demand in tandem with the former empress that you leave now."

"If you insist, Prime Minister. But let it be known, I was told that you will in fact be departing," Rasputin told him, a dark smile crossing his lips as he turned to leave. What mattered now as far as he was concerned was making sure that vision came absolutely true...

* * *

SEPTEMBER 1911

KIEV

"Fifty years ago, my grandfather Alexander II had a dream," Nicholas announced to the crowd standing before him in Kiev's main square, "A dream that Russia could move forward from its backwards past. And so, on this day in 1861, he declared all serfs in the empire to be immediately and forever free. Today, it is my distinct honor to dedicate this memorial to that momentous moment."

He stepped forward and nodded to the mayor of Kiev, who joined him in grabbing the large sheet covering the memorial. The two of them pulled it off in unison, revealing a large statue of Alexander II atop the memorial's marble pedestal. "May this monument serve as the bronze serpent Moses raised in the wilderness, so that all who feel oppressed by a bitter life may look to it and live," the tsar conclude, "May God bless Russia."

He soaked in the applause before walking back to his family on the dais next to the statue. "Was I good?" he asked them.

"Absolutely perfect," his wife squeezed his hand approvingly, "Wasn't he, Father?"

"Yes, indeed," Rasputin said quickly from his seat at the back of the dais, trying as hard as he could to suppress his disgust over the moment-Makary had long lamented that allowing the Romanovs to abolish serfdom had been the biggest mistake allowed under his watch, "Very, very concise indeed. Well, if you won't be needing me for the moment, I have important business to attend to here in the city."

"Oh come on, Father, you'll love the play," Alexei tried to goad him, "It is The Tale of Tsar Saltan, after all."

"No, no, my dear tsarevich, I'm afraid these matter are of the utmost importance to me," Rasputin told him, "But I'm sure you will enjoy the play nonetheless; it should be rather memorable for you. Till we meet again, your Majesty, Prime Minister."

He bowed to them both before bustling off the dais and disappearing into the crowd. "Well, he certainly seems to be in a hurry to leave," Stolypin frowned after him suspiciously, "In fact, I can't help wondering how much he really wants to be here, given how he didn't applaud the unveiling..."

"A man of God doesn't need to explain himself to those who only see things in earthly ways, Mr. Stolypin, much as I know you do," the tsarina gave him a frown of her own, "Perhaps he's grown tired of your pompous grandstanding in the Duma and decided to..."

"At any rate," Nicholas quickly cut in to stop the political debate, "Why don't we all head on into the opera house; the show should be starting soon, and like the Father said, it should be memorable."

* * *

"Miserable wretched fool!" Rasputin bellowed out loud, hurling the garbage cans in the alley behind the opera house into the walls, "If he says one more word about the glorious liberation of the masses...!"

"OK, I think you're a little too uptight right now, sir," Bartok slid down his back and started squeezing his shoulder, "Just relax, let calm thoughts flow through your head..."

"I don't need a massage!" the sorcerer slapped at him. He turned to the other two men in the alley with him. "Hermogen, Illiodor, I'm counting on you to put Peter Arkadevich Stolypin in his place. You know what to do?"

"Absolutely, Rasputin," the thin, mustached Hermogen nodded softly. Next to him, the huge, bearded Illiodor started firmly straight ahead, mentally preparing for what lay ahead.

"I've already sent for the emissary," Rasputin continued, "You'll know him when you see him. Stolypin in is Box #3. Make sure to arrange this so the tsar can never trace this to us. Good luck, gentlemen, and don't fail."

He strode out of the alley, melting away into the crowds dispersing from the scene of the statue's dedication. Once he was out of sight, Illiodor rolled his eyes. "How much longer do we have to put up with him?" he complained to his colleague.

"Only till we get a powerful patriarchate of our own, Illiodor," Hermogen assure him, "Then we merely expose him as a Khlyst and reap the reward from a grateful royal family. Until then, we need him to keep our rise going, and this job will be part of that. So let's get going and get it done."

The two of them sauntered out of the alley and waited by the corner of the opera house, watching the patrons stream inside. After about five minutes, Hermogen pointed. There, that's the emissary," he declared, gesturing at an unkempt man in plain clothes that stood out from the more formally dressed government officials and military men entering the opera house, "Let's do it."

"Right," Illiodor weaved his way through the crowds towards the man. "You there, sir," he called out.

* * *

Anastasia watched with rapt attention as the Swan Bird magically created the city of Ledenets for the prince. While plays had been often performed at the palace, none were as magical as this.

She joined the rest of the house in giving the actors a rousing applause as the curtain came down and the house lights went up for intermission. "This is really good, isn't it?" she asked Alexei in the seat next to her.

"Yes, it really is," he agreed, visibly enamored as well.

"This is so boring," Olga was far less pleased in the back of the box, "How much longer till we can get out of here?"

"Still two more acts to go, my dear," her father told her, "And I think you'll like..."

Suddenly shots started ringing out in the lobby. "Down, your Majesty, down!" cried the guard at the back of the box, scrambling to cover the tsar. Anastasia grunted as her mother threw herself onto her and her brother. Immediately, everything her grandmother had said about the insane man in Japan who'd come after her father flashed through her mind again. What if her grandmother was wrong and the man was back again...?

"What happened out there?" Nicholas cried to the captain of the guard as he rushed through the curtain.

"The prime minister's been shot, your Majesty!" the captain related breathlessly, "The shooter killed himself immediately after...AAAAKKKK!"

Olga and Tatiana's scream joined with his as a heavily bleeding Stolypin crawled into the royal box. Gasping terribly, the prime minister just barely managed to make the sign of the cross at the royal family before collapsing to the floor, dead. "My God," the tsar mumbled weakly, utterly shocked, "Who could have done this...?"


	5. Love Unrequitted

INSIDE THE WINTER PALACE...

"Faster, all of you, faster!" Head Chef Lebedev shouted at the palace's cooking staff, pacing back and forth behind them at their stations like a madman, "The tsar and his family will be here in less than ten minutes; we must have their evening meals ready to go by...!"

There came a loud shattering in the corner. The chef growled in utter frustration. "Dmitry!" he roared mercilessly at the undersized boy manning the dish washing station, "Can't you do anything right!?"

"I...uh...I..." the boy stammered desperately for an answer.

"Mr. Lebedev," one of the butlers stuck his head in the kitchen door, "Count Vladimir and Prince Andronikov will be arriving at the front gate with their gifts to the tsar from their trip through the Orient; they'll need a spare set of hands to carry their wares in."

"A spare set? I've got just the set for you. Dmitry," he rounded back on the child, grinning as if he was hoping the boy would break the nobles' presents and give him a reason to fire him, "See to this, and do not screw this up."

"I promise I won't, sir," Dmitry mumbled quickly, eager to just leave the kitchen for the moment. He heard the snickering of Artyom in the corner. Artyom the delinquent from the streets, set to work in the palace by the magistrates as punishment for theft, and who pushed the other boys in the palace employ around every chance he got. Oh well, at least the current task at hand would take him away from him...

He followed the butler down the secret servant hallways that went around the royal family's rooms. He had been working at the palace for a year and a half now, put up into service when his aunt and uncle had become too infirm to take care of him following a particularly severe accident at a factory in the city. He had come into their care at age two after his parents had tragically been killed in a pogrom-although it had been quite a strange pogrom, for although he remembered very little, the one thing that did stick in his mind was a strange glowing light of some kind that didn't make sense offhand. At first he had been thrilled to be working for the royal family, but since then his feelings had grown much more mixed, given that Lebedev and much of the staff had a strict hierarchy in place and treated everyone lower than them like dirt. Perhaps in a couple years or so, he hoped, he'd get a promotion to a more respectable position in the palace.

He shivered a little in the autumn air as they stepped outside the servant's entrance and walked briskly towards the driveway, where the main staff were already lined up, awaiting the tsar's return from Kiev; ever since word had gotten back earlier in the afternoon that the royal family would be returning to the palace that evening ahead of schedule, the staff had been hectically trying to make the last minute preparations for their arrival. But an earlier arrival was now coming through the main gate in another carriage. Dmitry had never met either Count Vladimir or Prince Andronikov before, but their reputation around the palace as high-livers who spent money like water was well known. Indeed, as the carriage was braked to a stop right before him, he could hear a voice he had heard before inside saying firmly, "...promise me you two, no matter how desperate you are that you've completely drained your funds on this trip-yet again-do not ask the tsar or the dowager for any more money, because their answer will be a very resounding no."

"Well Felix, perhaps if we don't..." a rather jovial-sounding voice started to say.

"Vladimir, we've been friends for twenty years, you're going to have to trust me on this; Mikhail, you should take my word for this too," the familiar voice told them both, "If you hadn't spent so lavishly on so many questionable items to try and get back in the tsar's good graces..."

"Well then, let's see if we can, Felix," the door to the carriage swung open. A large bearded rolly-poly man jumped down, dragging a large trunk with him. "Hello there, my good man," he gave the butler's hand a vigorous pumping, "Could you put this in the family dining room?"

He thrust the trunk onto the butler's shoulders. Grimacing terribly, the butler staggered back into the servant's entrance. "Nice, Vladimir, very nice," an unkempt prince with sideburns and a beaver coat hopped down next, "He looks like just the type who'd throw out his back and blame it on us."

"Oh he wouldn't do that, Andronikov old chum; he knows we'd never hurt a flea," Vladimir countered. He then finally noticed Dmitry at his feet. "Well, have you come to help with our gifts?" he asked kindly.

"If, if you want me to, Count," the boy bowed.

"Oh, please don't, Count is way too formal; call me Vlad," the fat man dug a much smaller trunk out of the carriage and handed it to him, "And you are...?"

"Dmitry. Dmitry Oldenstein."

"Why are you bothering asking him that, Vladimir, he's just a servant," Andronikov scoffed, hefting a trunk of his own.

"And for the moment he's OUR servant, Mikhail, so we might as well treat him well," Vladimir argued. "Dmitry Oldenstein, my good friend Mikhail Andronikov," he gestured at him, "And our mutual friend, Prince Felix Yusupov."

"Indeed," Prince Yusupov looked a bit disgruntled as he dragged another enormous trunk out of the carriage, "So, do you want all this thrown in a pile in the palace lobby, or is there some semblence of order to any of...?"

Trumpets rang out from the top of the palace. The tsar's carriage was approaching. Yusupov bustled over to it as it ground to a halt right by the palace steps and opened the door for the tsar. "Your Majesty, welcome home," he said formally, "My deepest condolences for Mr. Stolypin and his family; I heard about..."

"Thank you, Prince Yusupov, but my family and I would really just like to get inside and eat," Nicholas stepped down. He definitely looked stunned and worried, Dmitry thought, now down on his knees in respect for the sovereign's presence, as if the events of the day were seared into his very bones. Occasionally when he'd been sent to the market to fetch food for the palace, shopkeepers had grumbled the tsar had to be a complete idiot the way things were going in the country at the moment. He'd usually take that opportunity to protest that the tsar was really a nice man, although they didn't always listen to him.

But any thought of the tsar was immediately driven clean from his mind. For there she was, climbing down off the carriage right behind her sisters. The first time he'd seen her when he'd started working at the palace, he'd had to pinch himself to make sure she was real. And even then, he hadn't been completely certain she wasn't an angel. He felt his heart start melting. Yes, no one in all of Russia's incredible expanses could ever top the princess Anastasia in terms of pure loveliness.

At the moment, however, she appeared terribly shaken, perhaps not all that surprising given what the staff had learned had happened earlier in Kiev, and quickly bustled into the palace holding her mother's hand tightly. He stared longingly after her. If only she knew he existed...

"Say kid, you still in there?" came Andronikov's voice in his ear, "We're expecting service here."

"Oh, right," Dmitry snapped out of it and hopped back up.

"Come with me, then," Vladimir waved him towards the main entrance, an entrance Dmitry had never been allowed to go through before. "Um, Cou...Mr. Vlad, I'm not really supposed to..." he started to say.

"You're with me, my little friend, so it's all right by me," Vladimir was quite unconcerned about the whole situation. "So, Dmitry Oldenstein, what exactly do you do here at the palace?" he asked jovially, taking his hand and leading him through the front entrance.

"I, uh, wash the dishes and pick up the royal family's food from the city," he explained, quite happy that a nobleman was willing to be friendly with someone like him. "How about you, Mr. Vlad?"

"Prince Andronikov and I hold positions with the Synod," Vladimir explained to him, "Rather vague positions actually; neither of us really know what we do either. But we still earn more than enough to travel extensively, as you might have heard. Have you ever wanted to travel to faraway lands, Dmitry Oldenstein?"

"Many times, Mr. Vlad," the boy nodded; when his life was at its harshest, he'd often dreamed of being able to fly away from the dreary St. Petersburg.

"Well, the next time Andronikov and I have the funds to travel, maybe we'll take you along," Vladimir proposed, "And together we'll strike it rich rubbing heads with some big figure in the world."

"And blow it all yet again, no doubt," Yusupov was bustling back after dropping off the latest batch of presents, "You'd be better off with someone else as your role model, boy," he advised Dmitry, "If you like to keep your money in your pocket, that is."

"You look unhappier, Felix," Vladimir pointed out.

"I am," the prince growled, "The tsar's letting that crazy preacher discuss the next prime minister with him. As if he really has the right to be talking over something like that with the sovereign. Word's going around the dowager wants dirt dug up on Father Rasputin; if it's true, I want in on it; I've never been comfortable having someone like him around the royal family."

"Oh you're overreacting, Felix," Andronikov came up with a trunk of his own, "I for one think Father Rasputin's quite a nice gent. Will you back me up on this, kid," he looked to Dmitry for a plug.

"Dmitry, Mikhail; might as well give the boy some respect," Vladimir corrected him. "Actually," he gently lifted Dmitry up onto his shoulders, "Why don't we go listen in? I myself wish I could be in the loop with some big decisions in the family, as I'm sure you do."

He carried his young friend to the cusp of the dining room. The royal family was already seated and awaiting their meals. The tsarina was giving some sort of diatribe against some candidate or other, but Dmitry barely heard her as his eyes went straight for Princess Anastasia again. Yes, she was definitely distraught, staring numbly ahead into space and looking like she wasn't hungry. If only he could say something to her to make her feel better, although he wasn't sure what he could say. He kept his eyes on her as Grand Duke Michael's voice went up. "...incredibly clear, Nicholas, that Witte is far and away the best person to succeed Stolypin," the tsar's brother was demanding, "We had our best years financially with him in control; we can easily return to that state with him back as Prime Minister."

"I agree wholly with Michael, Nicholas, it would have to be Witte," the dowager agreed, "No one else qualifies as well."

"But, if I may," Rasputin's voice rose up from the far end of the table, "Let us also not forget, your Majesty, that Witte bullied you into accepting the constitution a few years back. Would you really want someone that insubordinate to you in power again?"

"Father, Witte's positives more than outweigh his negatives," Maria Feodorovna snapped as gently as she could muster, "And I wouldn't consider the constitution a negative at..."

"You may not, but I do," Alexandra spoke up forcefully, "Witte stole Alexei's legacy through cowardly actions. I won't stand to have him back, because he doesn't deserve to be prime minister again."

"And who might you suggest, then?" her mother-in-law dared her.

"Father, who would you call for?" Alexandra deferred to Rasputin.

"Let me see...God is telling me to go with...Goremykin," the faux mystic proclaimed.

"Goremykin is too old and didn't have any idea what he was doing the last time he held the post," Michael scoffed.

"But he has experience, which comes in handy in troubled times like this," Rasputin countered, "Trust me, your Majesty, Goremykin is more than qualified to..."

"Are you done with Dmitry's services yet, Count Vladimir?" hissed Lebedev's poisonous voice from behind the two of them, "He has work to do in the kitchen if you are!"

"Well, I suppose our work is done," Vladimir gently lowered Dmitry to the ground, "But I hope we can work together again, my young friend. And as a token of my goodwill..."

He pulled out a ruble and flipped it in Dmitry's direction, but Lebedev snatched it out of midair before he could grab it. "Thank you, Count; Dmitry, let's go," he dragged his ward back towards a secret servant entrance in the wall.

"That was my money!" the boy protested.

"And don't forget you are a servant here, and you're not qualified to hold any money just yet!" Lebedev glared at him, "And further, don't you ever talk back to me if you know what's good for you. Now get back to work!"

He shoved him forcefully up the corridor. Dmitry sighed and trudged back to the kitchen. Still, it wasn't a total loss. He at least knew he had a friend in Count Vladimir if nothing else. Now if only someone could cheer the princess up...

* * *

Anastasia couldn't sleep at all. The image of the prime minster crawling into the box at the opera mortally wounded was seared into her brain as she stared up at the ceiling in her bedroom. At least the shooter was dead too. But who else was out there, if anyone? And could she be among his or her next targets? How safe was the palace really?

She sat upright and sighed. It was no use; she needed an outlet if she could ever hope to get to sleep. "Too bad you can't be any help," she whispered, gently stroking her dog Joy, sound asleep at the foot of the bed (a birthday present two years ago-her favorite birthday present to date, in fact). Perhaps her father was still up at this hour.

She softly climbed out of bed, trying to be careful not to wake Marie, still sound asleep next to her, slipped on her robe and slippers and sneaked out the door. The hallways of the palace were largely dark. But there was a distinct light visible at the end of the hall in her father's study. He was still up after all. She bustled towards the light and stood in the doorway. The tsar was hunched over his desk, going over several papers before him. "...same thing every time, they want more, more, more!" he was muttering under his breath, "When I reconvened this session of the Duma I should have made sure Guchkov and Shulgin stayed home! The two of them cause more trouble than...!"

He noticed his youngest daughter in the doorway. "Oh, sweetheart, can't sleep?" he asked her gently, "Come on in," he gestured her up to his desk, "I guess you're still worried about what happened today, huh? Come on over here."

He gave her a big hug. "Papa," Anastasia found ehr voice crackling, "Are we safe in here?"

The tsar looked a bit somber. "I understand," he stroked her hair, "But I give you my word, Anastasia, nothing bad is going to happen to you or your brother or sisters as long as there's an ounce of life left in my body. I'd give away the throne before I let anything happen to any of you. We'll catch who was behind what happened to Mr. Stolypin soon, and put them away for the rest of their lives. So don't you let this bother you, OK?"

"I'll try," she told him, "Grandmama told me about what happened in Japan before I was born..."

"I had a feeling she'd bring that up at some point," he looked resigned to this.

"I guess you were scared, weren't you, Papa?"

"Yes, basically the same as you are now, I guess," Nicholas admitted, "But the one thing I've learned, Anastasia, is that fears have to be overcome, or they'll eat us alive. After all, that's what a tsar's supposed to do anyway, overcome whatever tries to impede his efforts to rule his country well."

He forced a smile. "But let's not linger with the bad things right now," he lifted her up onto his lap, "Maybe you can help me with a few big decisions here, not least of all who's going to be the next prime minister."

"I'd go with Father Rasputin and go with Goremykin," Anastasia told him, "He's the oldest one, so he's probably the smartest."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it," Nicholas smiled openly now, "Yes, I was leaning towards him, so I guess he's the man for the job. Now let's see if the Duma takes him."

He sighed as he stared at the papers before him. "I'll confess, just between you and I, that sometimes I feel the world's starting to pass me by," he admitted to his youngest daughter, "When I was your age, everything was so easy; whatever the tsar said was law. Now the Duma's pulling me one way, the rest of the family's pulling me another, Father Rasputin often pulls me a third way-sometimes it's all a little much for a simple man like me to bear sometimes."

"Well, you're a strong man either way," Anastasia leaned her head into his chest, "You'll get through it all right. As long as you're able to make sure the people are happy."

"I'm trying that every day; I just wish there wasn't so much bureaucracy between me and them these days," he shook his head, "I'm glad we do have Father Rasputin available as a voice from the people to let me know. Cursed bureaucrats," he grumbled out loud, "I can't do anything if they keep blocking me." His expression brightened. "But I do know one thing they'll never stop me from being able to do."

"What?"

"Make a young girl fly," he scooped her up and zoomed her through the air over his head. "Faster than a bird, or anything to ever take to the skies, it's the amazing flying Anastasia!" he shouted, laughing along with her. After about three minutes of carrying her around the room in "flight," he gently lowered her back to earth. "That felt good," he was definitely smiling now, "Why don't you run on back to bed now, and again, try not to worry about anything, because everything's going to be all right from here on out."

"I'll try. Good night, Papa," Anastasia gave him a farewell kiss. Indeed, she now felt much better, that nothing bad could happen as long as her father was around to take care of it.

* * *

Down in the depths of the palace, Dmitry also couldn't sleep. He stared at the top of his bunk in the cramped servants' quarters, dreaming about dancing with the princess. He'd been having that fantasy for a while now, and it really had varied very little: the two of them alone on the floor in the ballroom, the Romanov family all around and applauding them on-as well as two shadowy figures off to the side who had once been his parents; with no idea what they looked like, they could only remain shadowy. It was a fairy tale scene. And in this scene if nowhere else, the princess loved him. He could see it in her eyes, in her every step. If only it could be more than just a mere fantasy. If only...

He exhaled dreamily. "Thinking of her again?" his bunkmate leaned over the top bunk in the darkness. Yegveny would probably have qualified for Dmitry's best friend among the servants, himself an orphan from all the way out in Petropavlovsk.

"Yeah," Dmitry told him, "Even after what happened earlier, she was no less lovely tonight."

"Well personally I think Tatiana's the prettiest one," Yevgeny admitted, "Of course, there's age problem, so that won't work for me. Anyway, why don't you just tell her?"

"Tell her?"

"Just go on up to her and tell her how you feel."

"I can't just walk up to her and tell her!" Dmitry protested, "She'd laugh me right out of the room! And the tsar and tsarina would kill me for daring it! I'm too far below her to be a serious consideration for her."

"You know, you really have a problem with your own image," Yevgeny told him, "One thing my grandfather told me before he was killed was, regardless of where we stand, we've got to aim for what we want and go for it."

"Indeed," came an unwelcome voice from the other side of the barracks. A match was struck on the opposing bunk, revealing Artyom's cold and taunting face. "That's why the revolution will be coming soon," he approached the two other servants ominously, "And these wretched bourgeois slave drivers who exploit us will be thrown down and punished for their oppression of the proletariat, including your precious princesses."

"But they haven't done anything to deserve being thrown down!" Dmitry managed to say, a lot braver than he actually felt.

"They're as much bourgeoisie as the tsar is, therefore their destruction is a historical inevitability," Artyom all but laughed, "Marx and Chernyshevsky say so specifically in their bibles."

"Oh you and your stupid revolutionary texts again!" Yevgeny groaned from the top bunk, "How much longer are you going to get the message that no one here cares for your stupid theories of revolution and...!"

"I'd be more careful with your words, shrimp," Artyom reached out and seized Yevgeny's collar in the dark, "If you're not with the workers of the world, you're against them, and we'll have to destroy you too. I hope the day of revolution comes quickly so I can join the ranks of the vanguard and establish the dictatorship of the proletariat. It'll be so much fun," he glared sinisterly down at Dmitry, "Making your stupid bourgeois Princess Anastasia be thrown down and crushed. It'll be more fun if..."

Dmitry heard not another word as he flung himself on top of Artyom in a rage. Unfortunately, Artyom had the strength advantage and pinned him to the floor, pinning his arm harshly behind his back. "That's why we'll win!" he taunted him, "We're stronger than you, and...!"

The bedroom door swung open. "What's going on in here!?" a furious Lebedev demanded.

"He started it," Dmitry and Artyom pointed at each other.

"Back to bed, both of you, or no food for a week!" the chef snarled, making sure they were both in bed before slamming the door shut again. "Of course," Artyom continued hissing across the room, "If by some chance the Khlyst come back, that'll make it even better. They supported the work of Zhelyabov and Barronikov back in the 70s and 80s; an alliance between the two of them would ensure a total crushing of the capitalist..."

Dmitry jammed his pillow over his ears, trying to block his tormentor out. He didn't care to hear anymore about supposedly great revolutionaries, whose terrible tactics and lack of belief in any responsibility for one's actions made him feel sick most of the time anyway. His mind drifted back to Anastasia, no doubt dreaming peacefully above him without a care in the world. A princess wholly deserving of a prince, he knew. "_She'd only look_ _at me if I were rich_," he rued in his mind, "_I've got to get_ _enough money to even have a chance..."_

* * *

APRIL 1912

Another day, another group of people with special needs," Rasputin gazed with a dark grin through the keyhole of his private office in his apartment.

"Maybe today one of them'll actually be someone we can use, sir," Bartok squinted through himself, "We've gone too long with anyone of use to us dropping in. Oh, and sir, I have been wondering for a while now, why'd you press for Goremykin as prime minister? He's not inclined to work for you."

"He's merely a stopgap, Bartok, someone who won't force me away from the tsar and will hold the fort until I can find someone who will be subordinate to me alone to hold the post. And we'll find him soon enough; there'll always be someone greedy enough for power that can serve me well," Rasputin sat down behind his gold-plated desk. His operation, ostensibly to provide an opening to the palace for petitioners to the tsar-a service Nicholas had earnestly approved of given his openly stated desire of getting closer to the people-was a convenient cover for him to search out possible conscripts to the Khlyst, or officials he could use at a later time. He pressed the button on his intercom. "Is everything set out there for today's business, Akilina?" he asked his secretary.

"I think you'll be quite please with this lot, Rasputin; we've got quite a few people who could be easily lured to our cause," Laptinskaya crowed. She had been a very easy convert to Rasputin's agenda, with a lust for absolute power and a cruel streak to match, and had joined him almost immediately after his bid for total control of the Khlyst had begun.

"Very well, send in the first petitioner," he commanded her.

"Dr. Peter Badmaev, coming in right now," she told him. Moments later, the office door swung open. A man with Asiatic-looking features wearing a Chinese-style robe entered. "Mr. Rasputin, is it?" he asked.

"It is," the sorcerer told him, "State your request for my aid."

"I'm Dr. Peter Badmaev from Siberia-Doctor of Tibetan medicine," he explained, "Mr. Rasputin, I am currently the head of several large camel farms and a gold mining operation in Siberia, in addition to my practice with herbs and potions. My reason for coming is this: I have long believed Russia should have control over Mongolia and Tibet. I have petitioned the palace repeatedly to conquer these regions, but I've been rebuffed by the tsar each and every time. Since you are close to him, I was wondering if you could force him to accede to this."

"Hmm," Rasputin mused, rising from his chair and pacing around, "It appears, Mr. Badmaev..."

"DOCTOR, if you don't mind."

"Doctor Badmaev, you have a thing for power," Rasputin started to grin, "That really isn't so bad a trait as many would say. Tell me, given that you know some magic, are you affiliated with any magical group?"

"No, I am not."

Rasputin walked over to the wall and tapped it with his relicquary. A door magically appeared, with howling sounds and green mist on the other side. "Come with me, Doctor, and we'll talk over your proposal," he told Badmaev, throwing the door wide open. He walked forward onto a thin gray walkway extending into the distance in a sea of green mist. Demonic faces appeared and disappeared on each side without warning. "Come on if you want what you ask for!" he shouted back at the Siberian potion master, "Or is your heart not what you say it is!?"

Badmaev shivered, but walked through the door onto the walkway. The door slammed shut behind him and vanished. "All right," Rasputin had to shout to be heard over the wailing, "Here's the deal, Dr. Badmaev: you join with me and agree to serve only me from here on till the day you die. In return, I will see to it you get Mongolia and Tibet as your own personal fiefdoms. Is it a deal?"

He extended his hand. Badmaev hesitated for a split second, then shook it. Lightning crackled around them. Congratulations, Doctor, you are now a fully-initiated Khlyst," Rasputin commended him, "When I summon you, you will come to this apartment and through the door you just passed through and follow it..." he galloped down the walkway to another door which sprang up out of nowhere. He pushed it open and stepped into his citadel on Ipatiev Mountain, "...right to our home base," he concluded to the wheezing doctor as he came through the door as well, looking glad to be out of the ghostly intermediate area. "Therefore, I suggest you move your base of operations here to St. Petersburg so you'll be able to get here quickly when I need you."

"Uh, yes, I see," Badmaev quickly regained his composure, "Well, Mr. Rasputin, as long as I get what I ask for, you can count on my services."

"I'm sure I will, Doctor," Rasputin told him, "Let's head back to the office, shall we?"

The two of them went back through the unearthly void to the office on Gorokhovaya Street. "Take care now," Rasputin wished his new associate a good day once he was back behind his desk. He snickered loudly. "Another day, another recruit after all," he grinned at Bartok on the ledger on the corner of the desk, "And I didn't evening have to grant this one temporary magical powers."

"Just one little detail, sir; the whole brewing and bubbling bit behind the door; I kind of think that'll scare people off if you keep having the interdimensional sidewalk work that way when you get them to work for you," the bat proposed, "Maybe if the two of you just popped out and popped back in back on the mountain, that would be so much quicker and easier." He pressed down on the intercom button. "OK Akilina, who's next?"

"Colonel Vladimir Wulfert," Laptinskaya announced, "He wishes for revenge against someone who's wronged him."

"Send him in," Rasputin leaned over his pet to the speaker. A very angry-looking colonel with a bald head and large mustache stormed in. "I hear you can make things happen," he told the sorcerer, "I would like you to bring down Grand Duke Michael Romanov by any means necessary."

"The Grand Duke?" the sorcerer's eyes flew wide open. Perhaps the chance for a grand blow against the Romanovs was in the offering, "Explain to me how he has offended you."

"The blasted grand duke stole my wife the other night!" Wulfert thundered, "He stormed right in and tore her away from me against her and my own will! He has been lusting after her for weeks, and now he has crossed the line! I demand he be made to pay at once!"

"Very well, Colonel. Please, step back into the waiting room and I'll see what I can do for you," Rasputin waved him out the door. Once it was shut, he set the relicquary right in front of himself. "All right, let's see what the story here is," he told Bartok, waiting for a scene to emerge from the mist. He could see a regimental training grounds. Michael, in full uniform (no surprise since the sorcerer knew the tsar's brother commended his own unit) marched down his line of troops. The grand duke's gaze fell on a rather attractive woman standing off to the side-one whose face bore lots of red marks, Rasputin could see. Michael dismissed his command and rode over to where the woman was standing. Wulfert immediately came running up, jumped between the two of them, shouted angry words at the grand duke, and dragged his wife off roughly by the arm. "No dice, he's lying to us, sir," Bartok shook his head, "We've got nothing with this case."

"We'll see," Rasputin wasn't as convinced yet. "Show me more!" he commanded the relicquary. The scene changed. He jumped as a heavy pot was flung straight at him in the mist. The woman was cowering in terror in the corner of Wulfert's barracks as the colonel, clearly drunk, staggered murderously towards her, a sword in hand. "You're useless, Natalia!" he screamed hatefully at her, "You can't even cook me a proper meal! I ought to teach you a lesson about respect!"

"No, don't, I beg you!" she pleaded him as his shadow fell over her menacingly.

"You'd better learn from this not to let me down again!" he roared, raising the sword high. Suddenly Michael burst through the door. "You'll do no such thing, Colonel!" he shouted furiously, thrusting a pistol in Wulfert's face, "Drop it!"

Pale, Wulfert complied. Michael kept the pistol trained on him as he bent down to the terrified woman. "It's Natalia, isn't it?" he asked her gently. She nodded. "I had a feeling he'd been treating you wrong. Come on, you don't have to stay here with this monster anymore," he gently helped her up, "I'll make sure that from now on you're treated like a proper woman, not like..."

He'd taken his eyes off the colonel, who jumped him with a roar. Michael, however, flipped Wulfert to the floor and planted a foot on his chest. "Don't you ever come near her again if you value your life, you abusive filth!" he growled, shoving his pistol right in his subordinate's face. He slugged Wulfert hard for good measure, knocking him senseless. "Come on, let's get out of here while he's out," he told a clearly grateful Natalia, taking her hand softly and leading her out the door, "Tonight you can stay in luxury at..."

The mist dissipated. "Nope, nothing we can use here," Bartok shook his head.

"On the contrary, my little friend," Rasputin was smiling darkly, "This is exactly what we can use."

"Huh?" the bat frowned, "But you saw what..."

"I did see it. But the point, Bartok, is what the tsar doesn't know won't hurt us," the sorcerer rose up, his fists clenched, "If he believes I carry a holy vision that shows the colonel's side of the story to be true, then it'll be only the tsarevich left to succeed him once I get through with the grand duke-the tsarevich whom I control. Akilina," he pressed the intercom button, "Show Colonel Wulfert back in. He and I are going to take a little trip to the palace to plead his case."


	6. Maneuvering to the Top

"I swear to you, Nicholas, that's not how it happened!" a desperate Michael pleaded to his brother in the throne room, "I saw...!"

"I saw everything unfold in a dream presented to me last night!" Rasputin proclaimed, sweeping his arms grandly through the air, "I saw the grand duke break into Colonel Wulfert's house, force him to the ground at gunpoint, beat him, and drag his wife off against her will! Concerned for her well-being, I searched out the colonel, and he informed me that my vision was entirely true, is that right, Colonel?"

"Indeed it is, Father," Wulfert grinned darkly, "And now, your Majesty," he told the tsar sycophantically, "I demand as a Russian citizen that the Grand Duke be punished severely for this crime if he does not return Natalia to me immediately."

"Why, so you can go ahead finish what you were starting and kill her!?" Michael roared at him, "Nicholas, you've got to hear...!"

"Silence," the tsar held up his hand, looking glum and grim, "Michael, you've been exposed by a dream from Heaven; they are never wrong. I'm going to have to demand you tell us where you've taken Natalia Wulfert, or I'll have to come down on you severely."

"I can't do that," Michael shook his head.

"Michael, the fact we are brothers is not germane here," Nicholas glared him down, "You are violating a cardinal law of Christian faith to steal another man's bride, and thus bringing shame to our whole family. Now for the last time, where did you take her!?"

Michael lowered his head and shook it hard. "Very well," Nicholas's voice was cracking, "Father, since you've uncovered this, tell me what punishment I should dole out?"

"Let me wait for a sign here, your Majesty," Rasputin glanced skyward and closed his eyes. "...it must be banishment, your Majesty, lifetime banishment from Russia."

"Banishment for trying to save a woman's life!?" Michael was aghast, "I don't think God would find that fair at...!"

"Silence!" Nicholas shouted again, lowering his head in misery as well. "So be it then. Michael Alexandrovich Romanov, you are to leave Russia immediately-without Natalia Wulfert-and never return. Is that clear?"

Michael nodded numbly. He turned to walk away, then stopped halfway to the door and looked back. "I'll do it, Nicholas," he said softly, "But remember this: if Alix had been in the same situation, would you have done the same if she wasn't your wife?"

"I probably would have, but that's not relevant to this case," the tsar had his hands over his face in grief, "Now go, please."

Michael trudged out of the throne room, a broken man. "Do not feel bad, your Majesty, you have done the right thing," Rasputin commended him, winking at Wulfert when it was clear the tsar wasn't looking at either of them.

"I sincerely hope so, Father," Nicholas seemed choked with regret already, "Now you might say the dynasty's entirely in your hands."

"Well you won't have to worry, your Majesty, for these hands will take very, very good care of you," the sorcerer winked at his bat this time, doing his best to suppress the deep snicker he wanted to let out at the moment. The royal family was falling deeper into his hands.

* * *

"How could you!?" Maria Feodorovna berated her son over the phone, "Your own brother...!"

"I didn't have a choice, Mother!" Nicholas protested grimly, "The evidence was overwhelming that he was guilty of kidnapping and assault, and possibly worse! I didn't want to do it any more than you think I do, but the law is the law! Besides, it is what Father would have done."

"Nicholas, you are not your father! And you based the judgement entirely on a dream Rasputin had!? Doesn't it seem a hair suspicious to you that this whole case again Michael was built on his vision!?"

"It's FATHER Rasputin, Mother, and dreams don't lie, especially when they come from a holy man, you know that quite well."

The dowager tried to suppress the scream of complete frustration she wanted to let out. "Listen, Nicholas, and listen good!" she roared, "As the former empress of this country and your mother, I demand you curb Rasputin's influence at once, if not completely remove him from the palace! If you are unwilling to reverse what I'm certain was a grave mistake against your brother, I demand you at least make sure Rasputin doesn't try anything like this again!"

"Now Mother, you know I can't do that."

"Yes you very well can! If you could use your power to send Michael away, you can certainly do the same with that...that...power-mad grandstander!"

"Mother, you don't understand the position I'm in!" Nicholas shouted desperately, "Even if I wanted to, Alix wouldn't let me! We need him for Alexei's sake; you saw it yourself, only he could stop the bleeding!"

"Well maybe he cured him for good when he stopped the attack when he first came to our attention, assuming you're right," she argued forcefully, "In which case, it wouldn't hurt to at least send him on a vacation! You need not tell Alexandra the whole story, just please get him away from the royal family for a little while to see for sure!"

There was silence on the other end of the line before the tsar spoke up again. "And you're sure that's what I should try?"

"YES!"

Nicholas sighed on the other end. "All right, I suppose it couldn't hurt to try-but if Alix finds out, it was your idea, Mother."

* * *

"And don't take this as a banishment for you, Father, because it isn't," the tsar told a kneeling Rasputin, "it's just, well...we'd like you to take a little vacation, that's all. Just take off for a couple of months back in your home diocese, wherever you said it was..."

"Pokrovskoe."

"Pokrovskoe, yes, so please, just take the first train there and wait until we call you again, which won't be too long, I hope, if we'll need your services again," Nicholas shook his head softly, "And thank you for what you've done for us so far again. We'll have a cab to take you to the station outside."

"I respect your decision, your Majesty," Rasputin bowed, "Just remember to call if you need me at any point in the near future."

He rose up and walked out of the throne room, muttering softly to Bartok on his shoulder as he did, "And that'll be a whole lot sooner than he thinks. If they think they can get him to force me away, I'll show them what I'm made of."

* * *

SEPTEMBER 1912

SPALA, POLAND

The tennis ball sailed over the net, far too fast for Anastasia to hope to make contact with. "Not so hard!" she protested to Olga on the other side of the net, "Give us a chance over here; this isn't a professional competition!"

"Service," her oldest sister was already winding up for the next serve. This one shot right by Marie on the other side of the court. "I don't think these teams were drawn up too fairly!" Marie had complaints of her own.

"Why didn't you say anything at the beginning then?" Tatiana had to ask them, "If you didn't want the usual splits, you should have said so."

"How would we know you two would be playing for keeps? Time!" Marie called again as Olga began winding up another serve. "Any ideas!?" she whispered in Anastasia's ear, "Otherwise we're going to get killed here!"

"Well," Anastasia thought hard, "They have alternated back and forth between us, so I guess she'll be bringing it back my way next. Why don't we try a double attack; two heads are better than one, after all. Just make sure you get over quickly enough."

"Oh I see," Marie nodded knowingly. She returned to her usual position on the court. When Olga's next serve did in fact come Anastasia's way, she leaped towards her younger sister, and the two of them made contact at the same time. Over the clang of their rackets, the ball zipped between the two older sister before they had a chance to react. "Score, at last!" Marie raised her arm in celebration.

"Uh, was that legal?" Tatiana stared confusedly at Olga.

"I certainly don't think it was," the oldest sister looked miffed. "Alexei, it wasn't legal, was it?" she demanded to their brother, sitting on the sidelines stroking Joy in his hands. "Well..." he said hesitantly.

"WASN'T IT!?" she waved her racket menacingly at him. Before he could give in to her demands, however, there came the sound of trumpets and many footsteps trudging out of the woods towards the royal hunting castle. "Father's done," Tatiana realized, setting down her racket, "Let's see how many he was able to bag this year."

The five of them abandoned the court and approached the procession. Servants were toting along the bodies of no fewer than a dozen large deer before the tsar, who seemed quite pleased as he marched back to the castle, rifle in hand. "At least two more than last year, Papa," Marie was the first to reach him, looking impressed, "That's pretty good."

"Yes, there seems to be a little more activity in the woods this year, I've found," he gave her a big hug, then repeating it on each of his children in turn, "Who won the game?"

"We did," both sets of sisters said simultaneously. "Huh?" they glanced accusingly at each other, also simultaneously.

"I see," Nicholas chuckled, "Olga, Tatiana, didn't I ask the two of you to split up this time?"

"We agreed we were too good a team to be broken up," Olga said strongly.

"I see," he chuckled again, "Well," he checked his watch, "Looks like it's about an hour and a half until dinner, so finish up anything the four of you want to try before then. Your mother's going to be to see how big this year's haul is too, I know it."

He strolled off, whistling. "An hour and a half," Marie glanced towards the fields and woods to the north, "I bet I can be the first one to the lake this year."

"You'll never be first," Tatiana scoffed, "You just don't have the riding skills the rest of us have."

"Oh really? First one to the stables gets to go first," Marie rushed off in the direction of the stables.

"Wait," Alexei called out, looking desperate, "Can't one of you take me too? I won't cause any trouble; I'll just hold on to the back of..."

"No, because you know the rules; nothing dangerous," Olga frowned at him, "But we'll tell you all about it when we get back, so you won't miss out, really. Just have fun with the dog until we get back."

The sisters rushed for the stables again. At the corner however, however, Anastasia stopped and glanced forlornly back at Alexei, staring sadly ahead into space, barely noticing Joy rubbing against his feet. Plus, she could hear him sniffing as well. It just wasn't fair he could do nothing with his condition. If only there could be a way...

And then she realized: the riding trail to the lake was well away from the castle. No one went out there when her father wasn't hunting, so no one would have to know Alexei was going riding. Flushed with delight, she rushed towards him. "Alexei, I..." she started to say.

"Why do I have to be different from everyone else!?" he lamented to her, fighting back the tears, "I just want to..."

"I know, and this time you will, Alexei," she told him gently, making him spin in surprise, "I won't say a word if you won't."

"You mean...?" his face lit up.

"Shh," she looked around. No one seemed to be watching them. "Come on, quick," she took his hand and led him towards the stables, "We'd better do this quickly."

Fortunately, their sisters had already mounted up and headed off towards the lake, so the stables were also empty at the moment. Anastasia scanned the horses for one that would be docile enough to handle Alexei without problems given his beginner status. "There, this one will do for you," she told him, pointing to an old, graying one in a corner stall. She strained to lift her brother up into the saddle. "Now just hold the reins really tight," she instructed him, "I'll be right behind you all the time. Feeling all right?"

Alexei nodded, looking half scared stiff and half exhilarated. "Come on, let's go," he snapped the reins. The horse galloped gently out of the stables. "This way, this way," Anastasia waved at him, settling into the saddle of her own mount and putting it in a mild gallop; the quicker they got away from the castle, the better; once on their own in the wilderness, they could ease up a little. "Don't act too scared; it can tell if you're scared. Don't worry, I'm right here," she eased up and let Alexei go by, "Now get him up as fast as you feel comfortable with; I'll keep pace."

Alexei nodded, still looking a bit white in the face, and cracked the reins hard again. The horse went indeed faster as the two of them went around the bend and into a patch of woods. Slowly the tsarevich's expression became much more excited. "This is great!" he told his sister, increasing his pace even more, "I could probably do this for hours!"

"You're doing good, Alexei, you're really doing good!" Anastasia commended him, smiling, "Let see if we can catch up with everyone else!"

* * *

"Here he comes, sir, heir to the throne at one o'clock," Bartok announced from his perch atop a pine about a mile up the trail.

"Good," Rasputin called up from the bushes below, "Let me know if he changes course at all."

He fingered the relicquary eagerly, ready to use it and use it well. Once he was done with the tsarevich now, he'd never be forced out again. He glanced out through the bushes. Alexei's horse was coming closer and closer now, arcing around a wide turn around the bend in front of his hiding place. "That's it, come right to me," he snickered, extending the relicquary out of the bushes, "All right, Nikolasha, let's see how well you do without me around now."

He fired a green demon-like figure out of the relicquary. It quickly assumed the form of a snake. As Alexei rode right overhead, it struck at the horse's leg with a loud hissing. This was enough: the horse bucked in terror, almost throwing Alexei off right then and there, and tore madly down the trail with the heir to the throne clinging on to the reins for dear life. Behind him, Anastasia, coming around the corner too late to see the magical mishap or even Rasputin's arm retracting into the bushes, lurched to a sudden stop upon seeing her brother's horse suddenly run off wild. "Alexei!" she cried, hearing him cry out in terror. "Go, go!" she spurred her own horse as fast as it would go, but Alexei's mount was going far too fast for her to get anywhere close to him. It then leaped to the right off the trail and down a steep embankment, throwing Alexei sideways off the saddle still clinging to the reins, and charged across a small river, bucking in midstream. This last motion threw Alexei off, sending him flying hard into a rock and sinking softly into the water. It was about ten seconds later that Anastasia finally caught up. Horror-stricken, she dove off the horse and waded through the water to where her brother lay stricken. "Alexei no!" she screamed, panicked to see the water already streaming red with his blood, "Oh God Alexei no!" she pulled him upright and shook him desperately for any sign of life. "Help, anyone, I need a doctor!" she screamed for anyone to hear, "Olga, Tatiana, anyone, help!"

* * *

"You've got to let me in!" Alexandra shrieked hysterically, pulling on the locked doors to the room Alexei had been taken to, "I know how to stop all this!"

"He can't do any good, and he's a thousand miles away anyway!" Maria Feodorovna upbraided her, barely able to suppress her own terrified anxiety with the dire situation.

"Let me in, please let me see him!" the tsarina paid no attention and continued pounding maniacally on the door. The dowager sighed sadly and trudged down the hall, desperate to just get away from the scene of the tragedy. She'd taken the first and fastest train to Spala once the horrible news had reached her, and if nothing else was relieved Alexei had stayed alive long enough for her to make it there and see him. It didn't look good at all, though; worse than it had ever been, in fact. Alexei hadn't regained consciousness yet, and had lost an inordinate amount of blood already. If the doctors didn't have anything positive to report, that would probably mean...she couldn't bear to consider it, especially since Michael was no longer around as a possible heir himself.

Her mind turned to poor Anastasia, in hysterics of her own since help had arrived. Even now, she could hear her granddaughter crying severely just around the corner. Steeling herself she turned the corner to see her hunched limply on the couch. "Anastasia, don't feel..." she started to say.

"It's all my fault, Grandmama!" the girl sobbed uncontrollably, "I just wanted him to be able to play like everyone else; I never wanted this to happen! He's going to die, and if I hadn't...!"

"There, there, it's not your fault," Maria Feodorovna pulled her close, barely able to hold back her own tears, "You did nothing wrong at all. This was wholly an accident, do you understand me? And it's no given he's going to die from all this; there's always hope until the doctors say otherwise. So don't think like that, please."

She could hear the door to Alexei's room opening up now. She debated whether or not she wanted to hear what they had to say. Anastasia answered the question for her, rushing breathlessly up the hall. "Please, please tell me he's going to be all right!" she begged the distinguished doctors her father had called from every available city around Spala.

"Yes," Nicholas himself rushed up as well, "Please tell us that...!"

"Your Majesty," the head doctor shook his head sadly, "The heir is now suffering bleeding of the kidneys, and his prior wounds are experiencing blood poisoning. We've done all we can, but the only thing we can advise..." he wiped away a tear of his own, "...is to contact a priest to deliver last rites, for that is the only possible conclusion of the heir's condition."

Alexandra screamed in agony and collapsed to the floor. Her husband slowly did the same. "So it's all over now," he mumbled numbly, "My son is..." he broke down, "My poor, dear son..."

"Wait," his wife bolted back up, "If we can reach Father Rasputin, he can still stop this!"

"Alix, he's a thousand miles away, what good can...!?"

"Telegram him, now!" she demanded, "If you hadn't sent him away, we wouldn't be in this mess! If he could heal Alexei up close, nothing says he can't do it from afar, so wire him right away!"

* * *

"Trusting fools, just as I thought," Rasputin laughed out loud as he watched the somber scene unfold through the relicquary's mist, "Oh well, might as well not disappoint them, right Bartok?"

"Guess not, sir," the bat shrugged, moving further up his master's arm to get a better look, only to have the image disappear and be replaced by a shot of Laptinskaya sitting behind a desk. "Oh Akilina, it is I," the sorcerer announced, making her spin and bow, "In a few minutes, the tsar will be wiring you begging for help for the tsarevich. Send the following telegram to him: 'God has seen your tears and answered your prayers. Do not cry. Your son will live. Signed, Father Rasputin.'"

"As you wish, Rasputin," Laptinskaya started dictating her boss's request. "And then we lift the curse then?" Bartok inquired as the mist vanished.

"No, we wait until sunrise," Rasputin chuckled darkly, "If I've got them in agony now, might as well let them suffer a little longer before I make them all indebted to me for the rest of their miserable, worthless lives."

* * *

"Here is the miracle we've been looking for, gentlemen," a calmer and triumphant Alexandra waved Rasputin's telegram in front of the doctors' faces, "Alexei will live, so your prognosis was all wrong."

The doctors stared at the telegram, turned to each other, and shook their heads in unison. They trudged grimly back into Alexei's room. "All right, don't believe me, but don't say I didn't tell you so," she snapped at them.

She all but skipped up the hall to where the rest of the family was glumly keeping vigil. "He's praying for Alexei now," she announced to them, "He'll be all better very soon." (had she looked in the nearest mirror, however, she might have caught a faint glimpse of Rasputin watching from the bushes outside. The sorcerer tapped his relicquary, which stopped glowing again, and quickly slid completely out of sight).

"I hope so," Tatiana seemed hopeful yet still despondent.

"If he's not, then let's just go ahead and change the succession law like I've been saying for years," Olga groused out loud, "Because I just can't see why..."

"OH JUST SHUT UP!" Anastasia abruptly upbraided her, furious, "You've been jealous of him since the day he was born, and I'm not going to take any more from you on him!"

"Oh really, well why don't you do something about it then!?" Olga dared her. Before things could get more heated, however, the doctors came abruptly rushing up towards them all. "A miracle!" the lead doctor exclaimed, stunned and ecstatic, "The heir has returned to perfect health in a matter of minutes! I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it myself!"

"You mean...!?" Nicholas leaped up and led everyone into a full-on rush into Alexei's room. Sure enough, the heir to the throne now looked completely healthy and showed no signs that anything had been wrong in the first place. "Oh thank God, my son, my precious son!" the tsar embraced him ecstatically, "I thought we'd lost you!"

"And you would have banished the man whose prayers saved him!?" Alexandra glared at him, "I think Father Rasputin deserves a rich reward for his intercession here!"

"And indeed he will get it," Nicholas let her hug their son next, "I'll see to it he has the finest reward any commoner could wish for."

* * *

"For great and effective assistance to this dynasty, and to the Russian state, it is hereby decreed that Father Grigory Rasputin be on this day appointed official and formal state councillor," Nicholas proclaimed grandly to his court back in St. Petersburg. "Step forward, Father," he commended the sorcerer over a smattering of half-hearted applause from the rest of the court, clearly not that eager to have a commoner amongst themselves, "From this day forward you are one of us. May your wisdom from Heaven guide us for all days to come."

"I will interpret the Lord's signs as best I can for your Majesty," Rasputin bowed humbly, "With his blessing, I hope the rest of your reign will be bountiful and memorable."

The applause was again scattered and uninspired. In the back of the throne room, Maria Feodorovna shook her head softly. Either the best or the worst possible scenario had now come true; she was no longer quite sure which after having seen Alexei's recovery.

She turned and walked briskly out of the throne room and eventually out of the palace. "Back to the Anichkov Palace," she instructed her carriage driver, climbing inside. She mulled over everything that she'd seen with her own eyes. Had she been wrong about Rasputin from the start?

Bishop Feofan was waiting in the front parlor when she arrived, looking concerned. "So it is done now?" he asked solemnly.

"It is," she nodded, "I thought I'd never say this after we've started working together, Bishop, but maybe we're wrong about him. To be able to cure Alexei from so far away...maybe he actually is a holy man, and we've prejudiced..."

"Gendarme Chief Dzunkovsky, requesting your presence," one of the courtiers announced from outside the parlor. The two of them straightened up as Dzunkovsky strode in, manila envelopes in hand. "Your Highness, Bishop, I have finished my investigation," he bowed to them, "You definitely need to hear what I've found."

"What, then?" Feofan leaned forward, eager to hear.

"This is big," Dzunkovsky handed him the first set of papers from one of the envelopes, "My agents interviewed pretty much everyone in Pokrovskoe. Fact of the matter is, no one there's ever heard of a Father Rasputin."

"Really?" the dowager frowned. It appeared her first intuition about the man might be right after all-which would mean Nicholas had just made a grave error.

"There's more," Dzunkovsky continued, "His route there from St. Petersburg by train would mean he'd have to get off at the Tyumen station and finish the journey on foot from there. We interviewed the station manager and most of the employees at Tyumen; not one of them saw Father Rasputin get off any train over the last six months."

"Then where was he?" Feofan frowned at the official report in his hands, "If he didn't go there...was he stalking the royal family, waiting for a chance to...?"

He couldn't finish the thought. "But here's the thing that'll really cement your case," Dzunkovsky handed the dowager his final envelope, "We picked up two men that several witnesses claim they saw talking to the revolutionary Bogrov right before he shot Stolypin..."

"Hermogen and Illiodor," Feofan frowned grimly at the photos of his former colleagues in the church.

"Not only did they confess to hypnotising Bogrov to commit the murder," Dzunkovsky went on, "they insist Rasputin was the mastermind. They're demanding to speak to the tsar immediately."

"Well then, I propose we give them that audience right away so Nicholas can reverse this situation," Maria Feodorovna rose up, determined, "Bring them to the Winter Palace at one, Mr. Dzunkovsky. And order a search of Father Rasputin's apartment; if we can get more proof to seal the case against him, let's get it."


	7. Declaring Total War

"I've never met these men face to face before in my life," Rasputin proclaimed before the sovereigns, glaring strongly at the handcuffed Hermogen and Illiodor before him in the throne room, "I have, however, seen them in my visions, seen their learing faces over Stolypin's bleeding body. Yes, it was foretold to me that they would be caught for this crime, and I would advise the worst for them, your Majesty, since so clearly they are just filthy traitors," his face contorted with anger at his duplicitous henchmen.

"This man is the traitor, your Majesty!" Hermogen protested to the tsar, "He ordered the death of Stolypin; we were merely...!"

"Enough," Alexandra raised her hand, fed up, "The fact you two would resort to slander against the most decent man in all of Russia to save yourselves, when he has made it clear he doesn't know you, is proof enough of your terrible guilt."

"Your Highness, I swear, he put us up to it...!" Illiodor begged her.

"Silence," Nicholas cut him off, glaring himself, "For terrorist actions against the Russian government, it is my decision to banish the two of you to Siberia for the rest of your lives, where, in addition, you will do hard labor for the next forty years."

"A very wise decision, your Majesty," Rasputin commended him, "Nothing but the worst would suffice for traitors like these two," he glared at his now former followers again.

"You're making a mistake, your Majesty; this man is tricking you!" Hermogen shouted one last plea as the gendarmes dragged him and Illiodor out of the throne room, "He manipulated and betrayed us, and now will do the same to you if you don't open your eyes, Russian tsar! Get rid of him now if you want to keep your throne!"

The doors were pushed closed, cutting off anything else they might have had to say. "Your Majesty, I would strongly advise examining their story about Rasputin here closely," Dzunkovsky pressed the tsar.

"There is no need," Alexandra cut in sternly, "They were lying to save themselves, Mr. Dzunkovsky, that is quite clear indeed. The sovereign and I consider this entire matter closed."

"But there is the fact that Rasputin did not go to Pokrovskoe as you ordered him to," Dzunkovsky extended his envelopes towards the tsar, "Doesn't that bear closer examination? Or that no one in his home town has ever heard of him?"

"Pokrovskoe was the place of my birth, but I have been a wanderer by nature since I was young, Mr. Dzunkovsky," Rasputin told him, "It has actually been quite a while since I have been there, but I assure you I was going there before I was recalled owing to the heir's emergency."

"And I find no fault with any of that," Nicholas agreed, not touching the envelope.

"But Sire...!"

"That will be all," the tsarina glared him down, "I have good reason to suspect that certain parties that don't like Father Rasputin put you up to this, Mr. Dzunkovsky. You are hereby ordered to stay away from him, and if we hear you've been harassing him again, you will be fired. Is that clear!?"

"It is," Dzunkovsky sighed, defeated, "A very nice day to you all, then."

He bowed to the tsar and tsarina and trudged out of the throne room. The dowager and Feofan were waiting in the entrance hall. "No good," the gendarme chief shook his head glumly, "They didn't even look at the evidence. And we can't tail him anymore."

"Well do what you can to get around this," Maria Feodorovna ordered him, "For the sake of the Russian state, we have to keep trying. Lord knows what his devious mind may have in store for us next if we don't stop him in the end.

* * *

JUNE 1914

"You won't regret this at all, Mr. Reshetnikov," Rasputin gleefully told the fat banker seated across his desk, "Just remember to pour your profits into my organization as best you can without the government catching on, and I assure you you'll be a state councillor in no time flat."

"I would hope so, Mr. Rasputin," Reshetnikov rubbed his hands eagerly, "Anything to get an edge on that rascal Manus before he gets the honor first. Well, till we meet again."

He bowed as he put his hat on and left the office. "And if he finds out we've been dealing with Manus as well?" Bartok had to ask his boss, puzzled and concerned.

"It won't mean anything, my little friend; he'll just step up his efforts to shower me with his money to outdo Manus and all the other moneylenders now under my thumb," Rasputin was completely nonplussed. He smiled grimly. "If the tsar could just see how his entire financial infrastructure is now controlled by me. Our shadow government, Bartok, is taking shape, isolating him even further."

"Brothers Varnava and Pitirim and Mr. Bonch-Bruevich to see you next," came Laptinskaya's voice over the intercom.

"Send them in," Rasputin told her. His number two and three men in the Khlyst's now highly centralized organization (they had been among the first to join his cause when he'd made his bid to seize complete control of the order, and thus he had rewarded them for their loyalty with the highest positions in his inner circle) had requested a meeting with him, as had Bonch-Bruevich, saying he carried a memo from Lenin in Switzerland. "Gentlemen, thank you for your time and patience," he greeted the three of them, "Now tell me, what is it you wish to say?"

"You tell him," Varnava nudged Pitirim, looking nervous.

"No, you tell him!" Pitirim hissed back.

"Gentlemen..." Rasputin frowned at them.

"Um, Rasputin, we have no problems with your leadership skills, of course," Varnava began slowly, "But I'm afraid I have to tell you that some of the lower-ranking Khlyst are starting to get a little, well, impatient with how slowly our apparent takeover of Russia seems to be going."

"I've heard whispers from a couple of them," Pitirim added nervously, "They think you're not moving against the Romanovs quickly enough, that we should be slashing their throats left and right at the moment. As are Bonch's Bolshevik friends, right Bonch?"

"I'm afraid so, Rasputin," the revolutionary stepped forward, "When I conveyed your message of mutual cooperation to Lenin, he was under the impression you were going to help strike a bloody blow against the tsar as soon as possible. In the last message I received from him, he is all but demanding you take action immediately, or he'll terminate our partnership."

"And I've told him before, _I_ am running the show here, and he will operate at _MY_ pace!" Rasputin growled furiously, "I cannot strike until the tsar and his family are completely isolated, or I'll blow the whole charade I've been operating for the last seven years!"

"Still, Rasputin, maybe we'd better try something to ease the troubled masses in our brotherhood," Varnava suggested, "Just one isolated assassination or something, anything that'll get some of our greener recruits satisfied for when we do make the big push you say we will."

"Well, let's see what fate holds for us," Rasputin pulled the relicquary out of his desk and tossed it up in the air. "Tell me, Dark Forces, is there anything that can be used to our advantage!?" he commanded. The relicquary started glowing and emitting smoke. A scene emerged from it-a scene of people running around and screaming. "Sarajevo," Bonch-Bruevich recognized it. His eyes grew wide as a bleeding body came into sight next. "The archduke!" he realized, "Ah, this will mean war for sure! The Austrians won't take this lying down!"

"War," Rasputin's attention was picqued. The mist dissolved into a scene of Austria's leaders screaming about the terms to be sent to Serbia, to be answered in full under the threat of full-scale war. "Yes," a smile crossed the sorcerer's face, "This could be just what we need after all."

He pocketed the relicquary. "Send the word to our brothers and sisters," he commanded Pitirim and Varnava, "Tell them to meet me at Ipatiev Mountain tonight-same with your Bolshevik emissaries still in the country, Bonch. It appears Phase II of our plan is ready to go into effect. Meanwhile, I'm going to have a meeting at the palace to push our position home to the tsar."

* * *

"War," Alexandra looked numb, barely able to stay upright in her seat around her husband's cabinet table, surrounded now by his various generals and war ministers, "This means Germany will..."

"I received the vision of what would happen this day in Sarajevo last night!" Rasputin declared to the council, drowning her out. In contrast to the reception they had given him at his appointment to the position of formal state councillor, everyone at the table was taking his every word with great interest. "And afterwards," he approached the tsar at the head of the table, "I received a heavenly warning, your Majesty. The Austrians and Germans will sweep eastward, and then move on here into Russia! Unless you declare war immediately and send every available man into the fight, Russia will perish in fire! This was made very clearly to me in the dream, so I strongly advise an immediate declaration of war to counter this menace if you are to hold on to your throne."

"No, not war with Germany, please!" the tsarina softly begged her husband. Nicholas looked deeply conflicted. "And you're certain you were told terrible things would happen if we didn't go to war?" he asked Rasputin gravely.

"It would mean the end of all you have worked so had for, your Majesty," the sorcerer told him, "You will not live to see your tricentennial in two years if you do not take the course of action I have told you. And don't worry about how the world will see it, either," he put an arm around the tsar, "After all, all we are doing is defending the rights of our fellow Slavs if we come to the Serbians' aid. Heaven is on our side, your Majesty. If you declare war now and throw all available soldiers into the fray, the dream told me, you will be drinking victory champagne with the rest of the Triple Entente in Berlin within two months at the most, and you'll be hailed as the Slavs' great hero."

"Well, he is right about that, your Majesty," one of the generals at the table spoke up, looking quite excited at the prospects being laid out for everyone present, "We can smash the Austrians and Germans in no time flat. Give the command, and we can show the Triple Alliance what the Russian fighting spirit is all about."

Every head at the table nodded eagerly-apart from Alexandra's, which was shaking frantically, trying desperately to beg her husband not to commit. Nicholas, however, looked convinced. "Very well then, it shall be war," he concluded, "Count Nikolaevich," he addressed the largest man at the other end of the table, "I am placing you in command."

There was a loud burst of grief from his wife as she jumped up and ran out of the room in hysterics. More than a few of the ministers and general glanced at her with more than a little disgust. Nicholas shook his head softly, but remained upbeat. "Mr. Sukhomlinov," he turned to his chief Minister of War, "Get all factories up and running for munition production and revamp the national train schedules to meet the troops' needs. And call the British and French and tell them I wish to forge a formal war alliance with them. General Samsonov," he turned again to the general who'd spoken a few minutes ago, "I'm placing you and General Rennenkampf on the front lines of our initial assault..."

"Must it be with Rennenkampf, your Majesty!?" Samsonov glared furiously at the general seated across from him, who glared back with equal enmity.

"General Samsonov, I know you and General Rennenkampf don't like each other, but you're the two best military leaders I have, so I need the two of you to work together on this," the tsar ordered them, "This is war, gentlemen; we need to work together if we're to make the Father's vision a reality, so I suggest you put any bad blood behind yourselves for the time being."

"Very well," Samsonov agreed, but he and Rennenkampf still glared at each other as the meeting broke up and the staff departed. "Well Father, I certainly hope your dream's right," Nicholas confided in Rasputin, a small bit of hesitancy in his voice, "After what I went through ten years ago..."

"It was ten years ago, your Majesty," Rasputin assured him, "What happened then can't possibly happen again. You won't regret this decision at all."

"But why?" Bartok on his shoulder whispered softly in his boss's ear as the tsar turned to leave, "You never did explain..."

"Shhh!" Rasputin hissed at him, "Now's not the time! All that matters for us is that he's committed to our bait. Phase II can proceed smoothly from here on."

* * *

"Mama?" Anastasia stuck her head in the parlor door. Her mother was crumpled over a sofa, still sobbing. "Oh Mama, don't cry," she hustled over and hugged her, "I hate seeing you cry."

"War," the tsarina managed to say between her hysterics, "War with Germany. All your relatives there...your uncle in Hesse-Darmstadt..."

"Don't worry, Mama, Father Rasputin insists it will be over quickly," Anastasia told her, but she was barely able to suppress her own anxiety.

"The people," Alexandra wasn't placated, "They'll see me as a liability; they'll think I'm..."

"Anyone who accuses you of treason will pay a severe penalty," Nicholas appeared in the doorway, "I know you're no traitor, Alix, and they'll know it it too." He walked over and took her hand gently. "We'll get through this very soon, trust me."

"Why!?" she looked up at him, desperate, "Why did you have to commit to this!?"

"We're protecting the Serbians, Alix; the people will support that," he told her, "And every general I've spoken to is certain we can smash whatever resistance the Central Powers can put up."

"That's what they told you before you committed to fight Japan ten years ago," his mother appeared in the doorway now, frowning deeply, "They weren't so confident when the Japanese defeated them at every opportunity, were they? I wish you'd told me about this before you committed, Nicholas."

"This is different, Mother; we won't take our opponents for granted this time," Nicholas insisted, "And our cause is completely just, so Heaven will be on our side."

"You've been listening to _him _again, haven't you!?" Maria Feodorovna rolled her eyes, "It would be just like him to do this. It's not too late to back out, Nicholas; you can call the British and French and tell them you've had a change..."

"I can't," the tsar shook his head, causing his wife's brief momentary look of hope to crash, "I've already promised them I'd fight through to the end of the conflict, and a promise is a promise. But if it's any comfort, it probably will be over very soon."

"Mm hmm," the dowager wasn't swayed. "Why don't we leave your parents to talk some things over for a while?" she asked Anastasia, "We'll go have some afternoon tea together."

Anastasia nodded softly, still looking confused and worried. "Grandmama," she spoke up softly when they were alone in the hall, "Why does there have to be war in the world? Can't people find better ways to overcome their fights?"

Maria Feodorovna sighed again; another tough concept to have to explain. "Well, sweetheart, when people are angry, like half of Europe seems to be right now, they tend to lose track of their rationality," she explained the best she could, pulling the girl close into a hug, "And full-on conflict seems like the best solution to them. Yes, there are often better ways to solve these kinds of problems, and I wish there was a way this dispute could be solved in such a way, but it appears no one's willing to listen to reason now, so perhaps this war is inevitable. I just hope," deep concern crossed her face, "That your father knows what he's getting into."

* * *

"War," Rasputin proclaimed grandly, pacing back and forth at the lectern above the meeting hall in his citadel, "It is the natural order of the world. Civilizations rise simply to be torn down through war and conflict. That, brothers and sisters, is what we are here for. We are the harbingers of the Romanovs' destruction through war."

He glanced intently at the hundreds of figures-perhaps even more than a thousand of them-in black hooded robes (the standard attire for regular Khlysts, compared to the brown robes that only the Master Khlysts like himself could wear when they'd achieved the rank-although he was starting to prefer the more eminent title of Supreme Khlyst more often lately) assembled before him in the torchlight, as well as the dozen or so revolutionaries in the back, part of his agreement to have intermediaries with the Bolsheviks, much as Makary had once extended his hand to the revolutionaries of the previous century. "Some of you," he continued, "have been saying I've been too soft, that I haven't been doing enough in our campaign to bring down the cursed tsar. Well, let me inform you, no one can be a Khlyst who is soft, certainly not I. And I will tell you that our war against the Romanovs will now go into full force. He thinks he's only fighting the Central Powers, but he'll be fighting a second war against us at the same time-a war he cannot hope to win!"

Applause broke out from his followers. Rasputin soaked it up for a minute before continuing, "By sending the tsar's loyal legions to die on the battlefield, we will isolate him further and leave him weak when we make our bold strike to bring him down. And so I need you, brothers and sisters of the Khlyst, to ensure he loses that war in Europe! I need to see the tsar's war effort against the Central Powers disrupted as much as possible! I need to see trains destroyed, factories blown up, armies misrouted, crops and munitions destroyed, and every other act of terror we can possibly think of enacted, until the tsar's forces are nothing but weak laughingstocks, too pathetic to resist us. And then...we will strike!"

He fired burst of energy from his relicquary, making the flames on the torches alongside his lectern burst high in the air. "Once there is no one left to resist us, we will tear down each and every Romanov from their pedestals and slaughter them one at a time, starting with the tsar himself and his family!" he roared, the light casting a very large and very menacing shadow on the wall behind him, "And then we will slaughter anyone else who dares to resist us when we take back control of the country-control, I might remind you all, which has been rightfully the Khlysts' for almost three hundred years and counting! And once we are in control, no one will dare stop us! And we will make sure of that by pressing our boots on top of the stupid, pathetic populace until Russia flows red with rivers of blood from border to border! And the Khlyst will thus rule FOREVER! Now go, and make sure that the tsar's legions feel our wrath, brothers and sisters! Our hate for them makes us stronger than them, and our hate will make sure we attain that which Khlysts have sought for over the centuries-pure, limitless, ABSOLUTE POWER!"

A loud cheer rose up from the Khlysts, who eagerly scattered for the citadel's exits, ready to enact whatever terrible thoughts were brewing in their minds. Rasputin hopped down off the stage, still on a high from his speech. "Well, I don't think there's much anyone can say to question how I'm running the Khlyst now, is there?" he smugly asked Pitirim and Varnava in the front row with the rest of his hand-selected inner circle.

"Certainly not, Rasputin," Pitirim shook his head, looking quite glad they actually could now move openly against the tsar, "Although," he grimaced a bit, "Even with what you've proposed, there's no guarantee the tsar's forces will lose on the battlefield."

"That is a good point, sir," Bartok pointed out on his boss's shoulder, "One bad spell here, one misspoken direction there, and the whole war could be over with Russia victorious before we'd even get started, and then..."

Rasputin clamped several fingers over the bat's mouth. "To follow on that, of course the tsar's forces will lose the war," he told his inner circle and his "pet," "I'll make absolutely sure of it. My closest ally in the palace, after all, will do anything I say, especially when I get through with her."


	8. Treason Afoot

"Looks like about ten, fifteen thousand out there," Marie stared out the bedroom window at the troops marching regally past the palace on their way to the front. She sighed dreamily. "I'd love to marry a soldier some day. How about you, Anastasia?"

"Maybe," Anastasia was much more subdued watching the procession.

"Maybe!?" Marie raised her eyebrows, "Who could possibly be more romantic than someone in uniform? And what's been bothering you? You've been all down and out for the last week or so?"

"Well, it's just...it feels like the whole world's slipping away, and we're helpless to do anything about it," the younger girl confessed, staring down sadly at the troops marching into the distance, "Knowing a lot of these men won't be coming back from the war...probably a lot of them have children our age, and knowing they may end up without a family...I just wish there was more we could do to either stop it or end it soon."

"Actually, I was hoping it goes on a little while longer than everyone says it will; I don't want to spend the rest of my life listening to Olga and Tatiana gloating about the services they rendered for the country," Marie grumbled bitterly, "I hate being told I can't help because I'm too young, and they get to become nurses and honorary commanders. If there's one thing I..."

The door behind them opened with a creak. "Oh, Alexei," she noticed their brother standing there, "Weren't you with Papa on the balcony watching the parade?"

"Papa said I could go once everything got started," Alexei looked uneasy himself about the war. He bent down and rubbed behind Joy's ears when the dog nuzzled against his leg. "I still don't understand why we'd have to fight the Germans," he admitted, picking up the dog and joining his sisters at the window, "I don't hate them or the Austrians, and I don't see why they'd hate us."

"War doesn't make sense to either of us either," Anastasia put an arm around him, "It doesn't really make any sense at all to have to fight people over really questionable things. Like I was telling Marie, I wish there was something we could do."

"Yeah," Alexei nodded softly, "If I were tsar now, I'd put an end to this before we started. Since I'm not yet, let's just hope Father Rasputin and the generals are right and this is over with by Christmas."

"Well, maybe a little past Christmas," Marie mumbled, still not letting go of the fact her older siblings had official roles to play with the war effort. "In the meantime, Anastasia," she turned to her younger sister again, "If a uniform doesn't impress you, what will?"

"Well," Anastasia thought hard, "I'd just want a man who would treat me well and never lie to me about anything. That's basically it. He can be anything in the world as long as he has those traits." Her gaze went past the troops towards the smokestacks of St. Petersburg. "And he's out there somewhere right now, doing who knows what, probably not even knowing about me."

"Well I say you're crazy, but I guess it's your life," Marie shrugged, "But so you know, I can't see how you'll possibly meet anyone outside royal circles or the military, so who out there is even going to get a chance to impress you?"

* * *

"Cocktails, take as many as you want," Dmitry called out loud, holding up the tray with them for the many distinguished men in the rear wing of Count Vladimir's palace to take at their will. Many of them did, all without giving him the benefit of a glance. Dmitry didn't care as much as he normally might have, though, for he was just glad the count had remembered him. It had seemed ages ago that the two of them had last met face to face, and he was convinced the jovial nobleman had forgotten all about him, and so had been just as surprised as Chef Lebedev when Vladimir had called to request his services for a benefit at his palace to raise war funds. Lebedev had resisted initially, bringing both Vladimir's sobriety and sanity into question on the phone over why he would want Dmitry of all people for this, but had eventually relented when Vladimir had continued insisting, and so the boy for one night at least was surrounded by the wealthy and powerful men he'd long dreamed of coming into contact with since coming to work at the palace.

The benefit had been going at full steam for the last two hours, with the rich entrepreneurs and various noblemen gambling their fortunes at craps or cards or other gambling stations for war-related causes. Vladimir himself was stationed at the roulette wheel, dropping the ball into play for another roll as Dmitry approached him, his cocktail supply exhausted now for the moment. "Oh, black; too bad, Mr. Stankevich," the fat man told the scowling regional governor across from him, scooping the money on the table towards himself, "Anyone else want to take a chance? Yes, you want to?" he asked a mustached man nearby who was nodded and approaching the table, "Well, have a seat then and we'll get started. Oh, you need more, my little friend?" he noticed Dmitry next to him.

"Yes, sir," the boy nodded.

"Semyon, another round of cocktails, A.S.A.P.," Vladimir called to his nearest butler. "Ah, Bishop, still here?" he noticed Feofan walking by the roulette wheel, frowning darkly, "Well, again, thank you for agreeing to come and give your invocation to kick off the evening, and let me invite you to..."

"I'm not interested, Count Vladimir," Feofan scowled at him, "Indeed, although I agreed to give my blessing to the war's successful conclusion, I find these proceedings in very poor taste, especially given that so many average men are going to be dying in the trenches for what I find a questionable cause in conditions much less opulent than you have it at the moment."

"That's why they fight and we provide the money for them to do it," Prince Andronikov, having visibly imbibed a bit, half-stumbled over to the roulette wheel himself, "Where would the lower classes be without us, Bishop?"

"I could ask that question the other way around, Prince Andronikov," Feofan gave him an even sharper scowl, "You and Count Vladimir would do well to remember Obadiah: 'Though thy exalt thyself and make thy nest among the eagles, I will bring thee down, says the Lord.'"

He walked off, shaking his head in disgust. Prince Yusupov brushed by him, looking upset himself. "Vladimir, HE'S here," he told his friend.

"He who?" Vladimir groaned as his latest patron won substantially off him.

"You know very well who, and I'm very sure he wasn't invited," Yusupov told him sharply, "I won't stand to have him in here, so I want him out this instant. This very instant," he added sternly as a warning he wanted action taken. Vladimir sighed. "All right, Felix, if it will make you happy," he conceded, getting up from the wheel, "But given the amount of money I've heard he takes in these days, I'd say he'd make a good customer here. Mikhail, take over."

Andronikov slid behind the wheel. "You're up," he told the well-dressed general taking his place at the wheel now, "Take your pick, red or black?"

"Black," the general said. Andronikov spun the wheel and put the ball in play. Dmitry noticed him look suspiciously to both sides before pressing a button under the table that he hadn't seen Vladimir touch all night. The ball immediately zipped into a red space. "Sorry, General, you lose," the prince could barely suppress a snicker as he scooped the money into a basket under the table. He only then became aware of Dmitry's presence next to him. "You've got a problem, kid!?" he hissed softly, leaning towards him, "Let's get a few things straight; Vladimir may like you, but I certainly don't. So beat it."

A servant approached Andronikov as Dmitry turned to leave and whispered something in the prince's ear the boy couldn't make out. "Now?" he could hear Andronikov saying out loud, however, "Did he say what he wanted? OK, folks, we'll have to take a break; important business I have to attend to This is..."

His eavesdropping abruptly ended as he ran into a well-dressed man heading for the door. "Watch where you're going, you little rat!" the man snarled at him, storming away. It was then Dmitry noticed his wallet on the floor. "Sir, you forgot..." he called out, but the man was already out the door. Shrugging, he opened up the wallet-and almost had to pinch himself. For the wallet contained at least a hundred thousand rubles, maybe even more. He dug it out and stared eagerly at it-more money than he'd ever dreamed of holding in his life. Perhaps this was a gift from Heaven, he had to wonder, to ensure he'd have a chance with the Princess Anastasia. Yes, he could envision it now: this much money could easily get her a new fur coat at one of the pricier stores on the Nevsky Prospect, or at least a whole batch of fancy jewelry. He could leave whatever he could buy inside one of the royal family's private rooms, leaving his name and where she could reach him in the palace by it. And then, she would love him, that much no one could deny. He shoved the wallet into his pocket, eager now for the night to be over with...

"May I ask what you're doing, child!?" came a sudden stern voice from behind him. Feofan was behind him, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. "I, uh, um..." Dmitry stammered.

"That money does not belong to you," the bishop extended his hand, "It is your moral obligation to return it."

"But..."

"This very instant," Feofan glared right in his face. His heart crumbling, Dmitry handed the wallet over. "Very good," Feofan took his hand and bustled him out the door. "Who dropped this?" he questioned the boy.

"Him," Dmitry reluctantly pointed to the man in question, just about to close the door of his carriage. "I see," Feofan strode briskly towards the man. "Mr. Raspopov, you dropped this," he called out.

"Oh. Thank you, Bishop," the man eagerly reached out the door and snatched the wallet away. His carriage lurched down the street with a snap of the coachman's reins. Dmitry lowered his head. So close and yet still so far away. "I wasn't going to steal the money," he mumbled to Feofan softly.

"Well taking what isn't yours is stealing no matter which way you look at it, my boy," Feofan told him sternly.

"I wasn't going to use it for me!" Dmitry protested, "I was going to buy...!"

He trailed off. No, it was too embarrassing for anyone to know openly. Feofan's attention, however, had already been piqued. "Buy for whom?" he inquired.

"You would just laugh, Mr. Bishop."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Tell me what your motives were?" Feofan inquired. Dmitry sighed; cornered already. "Mr. Bishop," he started slowly, "I, uh, I'm not...I don't follow your...we'd never confess to a priest, my family, they'd consider it, being that we're..."

"Oh," Feofan seemed actually rather understanding, "Well, don't worry about that, child, for it makes no difference to me if you are Jewish-after all, we do worship the same God, don't we? Now whom would you be bent on taking large sums of money for?"

"Um," Dmitry shuffled about uncomfortably, "Actually, sir...it was meant for...for...the Princess Anastasia."

"Oh," Feofan repeated, a smile now crossing his face.

"But please don't tell her I said that!" Dmitry pleaded with him quickly, "She'd just laugh at me if she knew...I mean, someone like me, and someone like her...she'd just laugh..."

"Would she?" Feofan bent down to the boy's level, "What makes you so sure you would be rejected?"

"Princesses don't fall in love with kitchen boys," he lamented, "It's just as simple as that."

"Well I don't know about that," the bishop told him, "I for one would think a young woman like herself would appreciate a young man like yourself who would be willing to treat her well-and do so honestly, of course," the scowl returned for a minute, "No relationship can last that is built on deceit, remember that always. Now, if you are intent on buying her a gift, keep in mind that sometimes the simplest items may mean the most to a woman."

"But she doesn't deserve anything simple!" Dmitry told him, "She deserves only the best of everything; that's why I needed that money!"

"I see," Feofan mused, "Well, my boy..."

"It's Dmitry, Mr. Bishop, Dmitry Oldenstein."

"Well, Dmitry, it appears the only thing standing between the two of you is the way you see yourself," Feofan explained to him, "If you keep convincing yourself that you're unworthy of her affection, you'll become unworthy, it is as simple as that. If you love her, you don't need to be a millionaire. If your heart is pure, then she will love you in turn...but only if you truly give yourself a chance. Trust me on this; love need not be constrained by class, much as too many of the elite these days seem to think."

"I don't know..." Dmitry wasn't convinced.

"You'll see what I mean in time," Feofan assured him, leading him back into Vladimir's palace, "Just try and remember all that I've told you until then..."

* * *

"Mr. Rasputin, this is a pleasure," Andronikov greeted him inside the deserted drawing room in the west wing, "To what do I owe your request for my presence?"

"Mikhail Mikhailovich, I'm prepared to make you an offer that I believe will be much to your liking," Rasputin told the prince, "How would you like to become the greatest and highest Romanov of them all?"

"I don't follow," Andronikov looked confused.

"Mr. Andronikov, I sense you have no like of your present line of work," the sorcerer told him, "And who can blame you, sitting around at a desk all day with no real duty, despised and laughed at by your colleagues? Well, if you agree to my terms, I can elevate you above that; in fact," he paused dramatically, "I can make you more powerful than the tsar himself. Change is coming, Mr. Andronikov, and I can sense you are the type who can benefit from it. So, if you will agree to help me, you will gain power in Russia beyond your wildest dreams. And, moreover; Simonovich," he snapped his fingers at the sleazy-looking man behind him, who opened the briefcase he was holding to reveal a huge cache of diamonds. Andronikov's eyes bulged right out of his head. "Those'll be mine!?" he huffed greedily, "You name it, Mr. Rasputin, I'll do it."

"I thought your heart was in the right place, Mr. Andronikov," Rasputin snickered, "Yes, those diamonds shall be yours for your services, and you'll have an endless stream of money coming from me that will never run out. In return, I want you to find me people to run the new government-without actually letting them know that's what you're approaching them about, of course. Find me people who are as hungry for wealth and power as you are, people who will obey my orders without a second thought. And if you succeed in this when the time comes, you'll sit practically at my right hand when Russia is in my grasp. How you got all that?"

"Pretty much," Andronikov nodded, staring eagerly at the now closed suitcase, "And Vladimir...?"

"You don't need Vladimir, Mr. Andronikov; you're so much better than him that only you deserve this honor," Rasputin assured him, "He was holding you back all these years, you know; you could have gotten so much further ahead without him."

"Perhaps you're right," Andronikov was apparently an eager Judas, "Well, whatever you want, you've got it. Now can I have the first batch of diamonds now?"

"Simonovich," Rasputin ordered his associate, who handed over the briefcase. Laughing in delight, Andronikov ran out of the room with it. "That was easier than I thought, Rasputin," Simonvich remarked, "But don't you know how much this could get your other Khlysts up in arms, sparing a Romanov to work with us...?"

"It's only until the others are dead and out of the way, Aron Ivanovich," Rasputin told him, "Then we'll purge out that weak-minded dolt too. But if we can use one Romanov to destroy the others, so be it; it's a very fitting revenge indeed. He'll help fill out our shadow government, too, so we can concentrate on destroying the tsar's forces without worrying about that."

He glanced at the clock on the wall. "And it's time we leave this party anyway, for I have a meeting with the tsarina," he told Simonovich, walking briskly towards the door, "Why don't you fetch me a cab?"

"With pleasure, sir," Simonovich seemed quite eager to do so. He was not actually a Khlyst per se, having no actual magical qualities, but Rasputin had known when he'd heard about Simonovich's illicit dealings in St. Petersburg's underworld that he would be a strong ally to have given his insatiable greed and lust for power. And so, part of his agreement with Simonovich when he had approached him had been to grant the loan shark magical powers, conditioned on Rasputin's own whim and his power over the relicquary. He watched thus as Simonovich bounded down the steps of the palace, stopped at the curb, and pointed his finger at a passing cab. A beam of green energy shot from his finger and latched onto the back of the cab, pulling it over to the curb. "The Winter Palace, kind sir," Rasputin told the stunned driver as he climbed into the back. "You are free to do what you want, Simonovich," he told his henchman, who nodded and skipped merrily up the street in the opposite direction. "Didn't you want to ask Count Vladimir too, sir?" Bartok asked his master as the cab lurched off down the street towards their destination.

"He may be greedy, Bartok, but there's an honest greed about him," Rasputin grumbled bitterly, "He would never join me, not like Andronikov, so we have no use for Count Vladimir, except to destroy him when the time comes to erradicate all the Romanovs."

"You say we'll dump the prince once we're in power, sir; what about Mr. Simonovich?" Bartok gestured with a wing at the loan shark as he disappeared up the street, "When the other Khlysts find out he isn't a natural..."

"What they won't know isn't going to hurt us," Rasputin assured his pet, "And if it does come to a head, we just purge the little weasel out; there's plenty of others here in St. Petersburg eager for power who I can bestow the same gift of magic on. Meanwhile, tonight we must ensure the tsar's first assault on the Germans fails miserably, and I know that the empress can be of great service to us with that regard."

"How? She's loyal to the Russian state, sir; you yourself heard..."

Rasputin squeezed the bat's mouth shut again. "You'll see in due time," he hissed softly. There was merciful silence the rest of the way to the Winter Palace. "I am here to see the tsarina," Rasputin told the footman in the lobby.

"She is inside her private drawing room, waiting since you called to say you were coming," the footman told him. Rasputin nodded and made his way through the palace to the tsarina's location. Alexandra was slumped behind her desk, staring blankly out the window; her eyes were deep red, and she was sniffing loudly. "Father, thank you for coming," she greeted him softly, "The pressure of everything that's happened, it's becoming too much to take."

"I am here to ease your burden, Madame," Rasputin put an arm around her, "You worry for your family back in Germany, don't you? Your brother in Hesse-Darmstadt..."

"Ernest didn't want this war either," Alexandra confessed to him, "Before Nicholas decided to commit and we cut the phone lines to Germany, he said he was begging the Kaiser not to go to war, but Wilhelm blocked him out. Now, we're going to have to fight him, and if he personally commands the forces in the field..."

She broke down again. "Why did you have to beg Nicholas to go to war!?" she cried at the sorcerer.

"Because the Lord told me very clearly it will all be over very soon," Rasputin assured her, "In fact, I know exactly how this conflict can be ended soon, Madame, and therefore ensure that your brother and your family survive intact."

"You do!?" Alexandra bolted upright. "Tell me, what, what can stop it!?" she pleaded with him.

"The answers you search for, my dear Empress, are right...here," Rasputin pulled open his robe with one hand and tapped the relicquary inside with the other at the same time. A blast of green energy hit the tsarina square in the face. Immediately, her eyes went out of focus. "Hello, anyone home?" Bartok waved a wing in front of Alexandra's face and knocked on her forehead. She made no sign that she had noticed any of this. "Wow, that's one powerful spell, sir," the bat commended his boss, "I don't think she'll be back till next week."

"She'll come back whenever I deem her ready to come back, my little friend. Now then, Madame, your husband keeps his battle plans in the safe in his private study, doesn't he?" Rasputin asked her, a dark smile crossing his face.

"Yes...he does..." Alexandra droned, not really in touch with reality.

"You will bring them to me at once," the sorcerer ordered her.

"Yes, Father...anything you want, you'll have..." the tsarina shuffled off in a daze. A few minutes later, she returned with several rolled up pieces of paper. "You are too kind, Madame," Rasputin eagerly snatched the battle plans off her, "In the future, maybe you can help me with this again. Now why don't you run along now, and when you come to, you'll remember absolutely nothing of what has transpired. And here," he fired the relicquary at his palm, where the green mist formed a spare set of battle plans, "Lock these in your husband's safe, so he won't know anything of our little arrangement."

"Yes...Father..." Alexandra stumbled away with the duplicate plans. Rasputin shoved the original copies under his robe, cackling softly in delight. "Hold on tight now," he snatched Bartok close and opened the window, "We're going to take a little trip to the front lines. Not only will the Kaiser pay us a fortune for this information, but we'll have ensured that thousands of the tsar's legions will never bother us again when they march blindly into a German trap."


	9. Government Without the Tsar's Consent

AUGUST 1915

"Any good news from the front, any at all, General Evert?" Nicholas all but pleaded his top military adjutant inside the throne room.

"I'm afraid there's none to give, your Majesty," Evert shook his head grimly, "In fact, I'm sorry to tell you to that the Germans have just taken Warsaw. We're in retreat across the whole front."

"I see," the tsar mumbled. He put his face in his hands. "How could this all go so wrong!?" he asked no one in particular, "How can the Germans seem to know everything we do!? First Tannenberg, then the Masurian Lakes, now this. I'm starting to wish I hadn't had to banish Michael; he would have known how to handle something like this."

He sighed sadly. Recalling his brother would have been impossible anyway, for Michael appeared to have dropped off the face of the earth, with no word as to his whereabouts following his banishment. He had, though, apparently gone against his brother's orders and taken Natalia Wulfert with him, as she had also vanished completely, and her husband kept peppering the palace with demands to find her at once.

"We've got to stop, now," Alexandra pleaded with him, "Surely the Central Powers are tired of the fighting by now too; I'm sure they'd accept any...!"

"And I've told you I can't; my promise to the Allies to fight till end is binding," Nicholas told her resignedly. He sighed in frustration. "General, call together the General Staff," he instructed Evert, "We're going to have to make some changes."

* * *

"I'm still not sure how you got the money to buy this," the curio shop owner reluctantly handed the paper bag to Dmitry.

"I swear, Count Vladimir paid me enough for this," Dmitry insisted.

"He actually has money to spare?" the shop owner snorted, "Well, it's yours now either way, kid, but be careful, because it's really fragile."

"Right," Dmitry nodded. He picked up the additional bags of bread and wine he'd been ordered to pick up for the palace from the floor and stumbled out of the shop. Once on the sidewalk, he put them down and dug into the bag he'd just been given. He hoped Bishop Feofan's advice on simple gifts was right, because Vladimir's payment, while substantial by Dmitry's own standards, had been just enough to allow him a modest gift. In his palm now was a glass angel, which he had instructed the owner to stencil TO ANASTASIA, AN ANGEL IN REAL LIFE on the robe. He hadn't bothered to elaborate on who he was going to give the gift to out of concern he'd be refused service, and indeed the owner had raised a suspicious eyebrow when Dmitry had given him the name to put on the angel, but he'd followed through after that without any complaints.

"_I hope this works,"_he thought to himself as he put the angel back in its bag and picked up the food again. It was time to book it if he wanted to get back to the palace in time and avoid Lebedev's wrath. Fate, however, was with him for once, and even with all the food he managed to actually get back ahead of schedule. He dropped the bags on the table for the cooks to process once they'd stopped bustling around making the evening's arrangements with each other. Which meant he had time-time to find her and give her what she deserved.

No one noticed him slip off down the servants' hallway, the special bag tucked in his pocket. He had no idea where she was at the moment, but he had a few ideas of where to look. The children's playroom was empty, though, as was the drawing room. He backtracked, think she might be downstairs in the courtyard playing tennis, and was about halfway there when he passed a pair of butlers standing at one of the wall entrances, listening in on whatever was going on inside. "That's all for them," one of them was mumbling, "Given how they've botched everything from the start, I only can ask why the tsar didn't make the switch sooner?"

His colleague shrugged. The two of them walked off, no longer interested. His own interest caught, Dmitry pushed the wall panel open ever so slightly. The tsar was seated at the head of his conference table, staring abysmally at his war ministers. "...swear it's not my fault everything went wrong!" Grand Duke Nikolaevich was protesting to the sovereign, "I just know there's a leak somewhere tipping off the Germans, perhaps even..."

"As I have said before, I will not stand for my wife to be accused of espionage!" Nicholas thundered at him, "She is no more guilty of treason than I am, and I refuse to let you blame her for all our failures to date!" He took a deep breath and collected himself before continuing, "And so, Nikolai Nikolaevich, it is with a heavy heart that I relieve you of your duty as commander-in-chief." He turned to his right. "I must inform you, Mr. Sukhomlinov, that I am removing you as well. It is clear we need a new angle of looking at the war if we are to salvage victory from the current situation."

"I understand, your Majesty," Sukhomlinov took his firing stoically, "Who will you be filling the opening with?"

"It shall be I, he has decided," came Rasputin's voice from the doorway. He strode in triumphantly, flashing the generals, many of whom glared back at him with deep revulsion, a sharp smile. "Your Majesty, I must strongly protest!" Nikolaevich rose up, "This man has no military knowledge at all; to entrust him with the well-being of our troops...!"

"But he has Heaven's will at his beckoning, something that I can tell we've been sorely lacking so far," Nicholas defended his decision, "And as you are removed from your post, I'm afraid your opinions can no longer be held in official regard."

"Your Majesty," another general rose up, miffed, "I respect your decision as ruler and am loyal, but I cannot in good faith work with this man. I thus resign my position as well."

He removed his epaulets, placed them on the table, and walked out solemnly. The tsar waited a minute in case anyone else would do the same, but the rest of his war council remained seated, although their expressions towards Rasputin remained murderous. "Now then, Father," Nicholas turned to the presumed holy man, "You have said you had several visions before I formally appointed you to this position. What did they tell you about who should be the next commander-in-chief?"

"They made it very clear to me, your Majesty: you yourself must personally take command of all the armies," Rasputin told him, "As the supreme force for good in Russia, only you can restore order to our soldiers' decline in confidence. After all, the military blood runs deep in the Romanovs' veins, and your very name will send chills down the Central Powers' spines."

"Not when he hasn't had any active military experience," Nikolaevich spoke up again, "Don't listen to this man, your Majesty; your place isn't in the field, it's...!"

"I believe you were told you were dismissed?" Rasputin told him off with a smug smile, "As the new minister of war, I could have you arrested for counter-active measures against the Russian war effort if you don't leave this minute."

Furious, Nikolaevich grabbed up his papers and stormed out the door. "Very well, Father; I shall take command at the front as you say," Nicholas conceded to his advisor's request as most of the other generals shook their heads silently, "Seeing me willing to stand on the front lines should encourage the troops more as you've said. Now, have you any other ideas on how to improve the situation on the home front?"

"Indeed I have, your Majesty," Rasputin proclaimed, jumping to his feet. An intense look crossed his face, one that from Dmitry's standpoint seemed to be etched with hate. "I have been shown the core source of the problem through my visions, your Majesty. The Jews have been working hand in hand with the Germans from the beginning, sabotaging our every effort, just as they have done for centuries," anger rose up in his voice as he continued his rant, "You would do well, your Majesty, to put an end to their treachery as soon as possible; call out the Cossacks and have them stamp out their evil machinations for good."

Dmitry's blood froze. "_Please don't, please don't, please don't!" _he silently begged the tsar; more pogroms were the last thing his people needed after everything they'd gone through over the years.

"I'm afraid that's out of the question, Father," Nicholas mercifully shook his head, "We're going to need every available man, Jewish or Orthodox, to finish the war as it's currently unfolding. Also, pogroms as you propose would be counterproductive to national morale; we need unity until the war is over."

"Very well," Rasputin accepted the decision, but Dmitry could see furious disappointment on his face. "Do you have more, then?" the tsar asked him, also looking somewhat taken aback that the supposed holy man had made such a hateful proposition (as did, from what Dmitry thought he saw, the bat on Rasputin's shoulder-but of course that couldn't be possible...).

"Yes, and I think this one will be more to your Majesty's benefit," Rasputin regained his composure, "We must revamp the entire economy into a wartime effort. We need trains running twenty-four/seven carrying supplies to the front; we need a national draft of all males between the ages of fifteen and seventy; we need..."

"Well, finding the bourgeois lice's machinations amusing?" came Artyom's unwelcome voice from behind Dmitry. The older boy pulled him back from the doorway. "If you're so interested, why not just finish the sell-out and become their full-out lackey!?" he taunted Dmitry. "And what have we here?"

He had noticed the bag in Dmitry's pocket and seized it before Dmitry could cover it up. "Well, well," he sneered, examining the angel, "A present for your stupid bourgeois princess."

"That's mine, and I want it back!" Dmitry demanded far more bravely than he actually felt.

"Oh I'll give it to you all right," in a fluid movement, Artyom smashed it to the floor, shattering it. "That what I and the people think of your stupid princess," he shouted hatefully, "And we're going to do the same to her when the revolution comes to...!"

Dmitry launched himself at his antagonist again, but once again Artyom was too strong and shoved him to the wall, his hands around Dmitry's throat. "I could crush your throat right now," he threatened, "I'm in the right to do anything I want, because I'm stronger, and might does make us right, not anything your nonexistent God says..."

"Stop that, now!" Lebedev came storming up the corridor. He forcefully pried Artyom off Dmitry. "I will not stand for violence by my staff!" he thundered at the older boy, "And I have had it with you in general, you little wretch! You are fired, starting now!"

"I quit, you running-dog lackey of the bourgeoisie!" Artyom thundered right back, "But I'll be back some day with the rest of the proletariat, and then it'll be your head on a stake-yours and his precious little princess!" he jerked a contemptuous finger at Dmitry before storming up the hall. Lebedev bent down and snatched up a piece of the shattered angel. "How dare you think to approach the princess!" he turned his wrath on Dmitry.

"But...but...!" Dmitry had no idea how to recover from such a gut-wrenching turn of events.

"You are a servant!" Lebedev berated him, "You were born to be one, you'll die one, and you have no business dreaming about the princess! So don't ever forget your place, boy! Don't ever let me catch you contemplating anything like this again! Now back to work this instant!"

He dragged Dmitry roughly back towards the kitchen. Dmitry cast one final forlorn glance at the broken angel on the floor. Why did everything have to conspire to keep him from telling the princess how he felt? That wasn't all troubling him, though. Rasputin's tirade against his people still hung over him. How truly holy was the holy man, he had to wonder with a shudder? Was the tsar setting the stage for catastrophe by trusting him?

* * *

"I wish you didn't have to go, Father," Olga sadly told him on the train platform.

"I have to, dearest," Nicholas was fighting to maintain his composure as well, "My services are required for our country as much as the lowest person. Don't worry about me, though; the Central Powers aren't going to do anything terrible to me. I'm counting on you and Tatiana to keep up the good work with the injured and the commissions while I'm away."

"We will, Father," Tatiana nodded firmly. She and Olga hugged him in unison. Nicholas sniffed back his own tears. "Marie, Anastasia," he swept up his younger daughters, "Don't be afraid. Everything will be fine; I will come back alive. So please, don't be afraid."

"Papa," Anastasia dug quickly through her handbag, "I've been drawing these up over the last couple of months," she pulled out a handful of cards, "Just some well wishes for the soldiers. I was only wondering how to get them to the men at the front lines; maybe you could give them to them."

"Well," Nicholas managed a smile as he examined them, "I'll certainly see what I can do. And then if you want to draw any more, I'll set it up so they can get forwarded to the front. Anything that lets them know we care for them is a plus, thank you."

He rubbed her hair softly as the train whistle blew shrilly. "I'll miss you, Papa," Alexei leaped into his father's arms, tearful.

"I'll miss you too, Alexei," the tsar sniffed, "But I'll make the arrangements so you can come to Headquarters from time to time; it'll be like I've never left. Once I'm all settled in, I'll have them send you on over."

He put his son down. "Mother," he turned to her next, glancing at his watch to make sure he wouldn't be left behind, "I know you probably have second thoughts about me doing this..."

"I do, Nicholas," Maria Feodorovna shook her head gravely, "Now that you're in charge of the army, any failures from here on will be pinned directly on you by the public, whether fairly or not. And as Nikolai Nikolaevich told you when you took command, you don't have any military experience, and by having let _him_ run the war effort at home while you're at the front..."

The train's whistle blew again. "Still," the dowager's tone softened considerably, "I wish nothing but the best for you, my son," she hugged him quickly, "Please come back safely."

"I will, Mother," Nicholas promised her. Time was running short now. "Take care of everyone, Alix," he gave his wife one parting hug, "Hold down everything while I'm away."

"You will write?" she asked between her tears.

"Every day," he assured her through his own, "And I've got to get going now."

He strode into his private car just as the train lurched forward. "Wish us the best," he called to his family in parting, waving goodbye out the window as the train chugged out of the station towards the front. His children chased it to the end of the platform and waved back until it was completely out of sight. "Well," Alexandra sighed sadly, waving them back over, "Might as well head back to the palace now. We've got a long wait ahead of us."

Her children nodded and fell in behind her going back to the royal carriage. "Greeting cards!?" Olga whispered almost mockingly to Anastasia as they got in.

"It was the best I could think of!" her youngest sister protested under her breath, "I had to do something to make them all feel better in the trenches!"

"Greeting cards!?" Olga repeated, suppressing an outright laugh, "What good could greeting cards do?"

* * *

MARCH 1916

"Do you, Ivan Mansevich-Manulov, swear eternal loyalty to me, the Supreme Khlyst, and everything the Khlyst order stands for, till your dying breath?" Rasputin asked his newest potential recruit inside his unearthly tunnel between his apartment and his citadel.

"I do," Manasevich said affirmatively. He had previously served as an intelligence gatherer for the tsar's foreign service, but, bitter over what he perceived to be negligence by his bosses over being passed over for promotion, had decided to sell out and thus had made overtures to the Germans in the last few months that he'd be willing to sell them critical information. As such, Rasputin had decided to approach him to serve him, and since Manasevich was not a natural Khlyst, he had a special incentive gift for him. As such, when Manasevich shook his hand to confirm their partnership, waves of green energy disengaged from the space around him and zipped through Rasputin's arm into that of the spy, who looked quite unnerved by the experience. "Congratulations, my dear Manasevich," Rasputin commended him, "You can now do tremendous things."

"I can?" Manasevich looked confused.

"Come with me back to my office and see for yourself," Rasputin lead him back down the walkway through the unnerving dimension to the safety of his office on Gorokhovaya Street. "Try and do anything, anything at all," the sorcerer told his new apprentice. Manasevich shrugged and pointed his finger at the bookcase in the corner-and was amazed when his finger shot forth green energy that lifted it up in the air. "Incredible!" he exclaimed, aiming it next at the desk and doing the same thing. He then pointed it at Bartok, who was sent flying through the air against his will. "Hey, hey, I can fly on my own!" the bat protested, stopped from saying anything else as he crashed into the wall.

"That will be all," Rasputin told Manasevich firmly, who lowered his hands. The bookcase and desk crashed hard to the floor. "Now," the Supreme Khlyst informed his new apprentice, "I have a specific job for you my dear Mansevich; go to the Finland Station and wait for me. I'll be delivering you a special package there in a few hours."

"But why do you need to steal the war plans from the palace now that you're running the war effort here?" the spy had to ask.

"I coordinate our efforts to run the war so to destroy the tsar's armies here, but the tsar himself as commander-in-chief makes all the final decisions," Rasputin said grimly, "And he only tells the tsarina of his personal plans, so I need her to give me that information for our benefit. So, I will need you, given your background, to deliver it to the Kaiser's agents at the front line."

"Whatever you say," Manasevich shrugged, "But I do appreciate the extra powers, certainly I do. Good day to you then."

He bowed and walked out of the office. "Speaking of the war effort," Rasputin put the relicquary on the desk next to a still dazed Bartok, "Let's see how our efforts are going so far."

"Prince Andronikov here to see you," came Laptinskaya's voice over the intercom, "He has what you asked him for."

"Good, good. Tell him I'll be just a minute," her employer told her. He stared at the scene emerging from the relicquary's mist: Varnava and about half a dozen robed Khlysts at the foot of a railroad bridge. Rasputin rubbed his finger across the image, the way to make the relicquary a two-way communication device. "Is it set, Brother Varnava?" he asked his second-in-command.

"The train'll be by in about five minutes at most, Rasputin," Varnava assured him, "We're ready."

"Good, because you're about to be named first assistant Chief Procurator of the Synod," Rasputin told him.

"But why can't I just lead it outright?" Varnava protested.

"Because the people can't suspect we're maneuvering for the final power play," the Supreme Khlyst sighed; he was surrounded by blind idiots, he rued, "The government still has to look legitimate until we strike, so I have to put someone outside our organization to head up the high government posts. But don't you worry, because he'll be just a figurehead; you'll have all the power behind the scenes at the Synod, Varnava, and so I'm counting on you to force our doctrine down the people's throats if they resist at all. Once we're in power, you can do whatever you want with the puppet I name Chief Procurator now, and take the position for yourself."

"Here it comes," came a shout from another Khlyst. A train whistle could be heard in the distance. "Everyone to your positions!" Varnava ordered, "Mudrolubov, Soloviev, take the far pillar; Skvortsov, Damansky, the middle ones! Get ready to blow it when it's right in the middle!"

The whistle sounded again, louder, and the train could be seen chugging over the ravine. "NOW!" Varnava ordered. A series of blasts from several magical devices brought the bridge crashing down, taking the train with it with a thunderous crash and a massive explosion of artillery pieces destined for the front. Rasputin laughed in delight. "Less for the pathetic fools to use when they find themselves under withering German fire!" he gloated.

"Supposing they do go to the fight the Germans, sir; you heard the tsar the last time he called; they might go after the Austrians and Turks next," Bartok pointed out, still shaking off the effects of the spell Manasevich had put on him.

"Oh they'll start that offensive, but we'll divert them to face the Germans; an army of blind men could beat the Austrians and Turks the way they're fighting right now," Rasputin grumbled, "I need as many of the tsar's legions dead as possible when we strike, so if they refuse to turn away from the Balkans, we'll send out my own legions to take care of them if I have to. In the meantime, let's see how our behind the scenes efforts are going."

He waved at the mist, which dissolved into a scene of several more Khlyst standing near an armaments factory. "FIRE!" Pitirim, in charge of this detachment, ordered. More magical blasts went off, and the factory exploded spectacularly. Laughing harder, Rasputin waved to the next image. "THE KHLYST ARE RISEN!" screamed the now insane Madame Lokhtina, preceding a field of crops being set ablaze by another set of spells. The next image showed his fourth in command Isidor casting a spell to switch a signpost. He moved into the bushes as a motorized unit zoomed down the wrong road and right off a cliff. Another dissolve showed the reliable pair Martemian and Augustin hypnotizing a general somewhere in Poland, it appeared. The general stumbled blindly out of his tent to an artillery gun and promptly opened fire on his men. Rasputin cackled in delight. His personal war behind the war was going perfectly.

"Prince Andronikov's still here," Laptinskaya reminded him over the intercom.

"Send him in, then, Akilina," Rasputin said. An eager-looking Andronikov bounded into the office. "As your secretary might have told you, Mr. Rasputin, I have the names you've asked for," the prince handed the sorcerer a set of papers, "I think these men can be trusted to be loyal to you. Can I have some more diamonds for this?"

Rasputin scanned the lists. A wry smile crossed his lips. "Yes, Mr. Andronikov, I do believe a reward for this will be in order," he told the gullible prince, "I shall have Simonovich send you diamonds and gold in quantities you can't begin to imagine. In due time, the new order will be in place, and you'll be practically at my right hand, a fitting reward for a true believer like yourself. Come, Bartok," he took hold of the bat in his free hand, "Let us return to the palace to tell the tsarina to promote these worthy men to some valuable posts, and get rid of some of our implacable foes at the same time."

* * *

"I've been fired," a numb Dzunkovsky related to the dowager in her parlor at the Anichkov Palace, "Orders came down from the empress I was to clear out immediately, that I was transferred to Siberia. It looks like they're stopping any and all investigations on Rasputin; anyone else who tries surveillance on him from here on will be arrested, they said. But it doesn't look like I'm the only one, am I right, Bishop?"

He turned glumly to Feofan to his right. I should have known something was amiss when Chief Procurator Samarin was fired two days ago," the bishop related, "I've been ordered to the lower Caucasus, and I'm not to return to St. Petersburg under any circumstances, under penalty of arrest. It appears Goremykin's been sacked as prime minister as well. I fear something terrible's afoot, your Highness, and the empress is unwilling to stop it. For whatever reason, she's just blindly going along with whatever he tells her."

"I tried to call the tsar about it before the order for me to clear out was given to me, but he maintains full trust in his wife," Dzunkovsky told Nicholas's mother, "He says she has his permission to run the country in his absence as she sees fit. This frightens me, because here's some more of the people who'll be running the country in the near future."

He handed her a set of papers with the Department of Police seal on them. Maria Feodorovna's eyes widened at the list. "That settles it," she declared, "I can think of one last tactic we can use." She strode to the phone on the mantle and started dialing it. "We need to get the whole family to get Alexandra to stop trusting this man. If she won't listen to a unified demand by all of us, we're probably sunk, and he'll have won."


	10. Acts of Kindness in a World Gone Crazy

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All song lyrics are trademarked by their respective copyright holders.

* * *

"This meeting will come to order," Maria Feodorovna said loudly over the din of the other Romanovs in the Anichkov Palace's ballroom. Nearly three quarters of the family had heeded her call for a conference, and from their expressions appeared to already agree with her sentiments. "Now then," she told them all, "I suppose you all know what this meeting is about. It is up to us to force the removal from the palace of the charlatan Rasputin."

She got a strong applause. "In case some of you are still on the fence about this," she continued, "Allow some of us to change your minds in our favor. Duke Nikolaevich, you can speak first."

The former commander-in-chief strode up next to her. "I remember it just like it was yesterday," he began strongly, "Rasputin standing before the tsar insisting we absolutely had to go to war, and that we would win it in a month or two. Now look where we are: almost two years later, almost a million casualties, the tsar away from the capital fighting it, and Rasputin himself essentially running the country in his absence. He swore the war would progress better under his watch, but clearly the opposite has happened, and we're losing more men every week. And I'm sure you've already heard of the people he has appointed to fill key posts?"

A strong indignant murmur suggested they had. "To leave these people to run our country under his missives would be a catastrophe beyond words," Nikolaevich proclaimed, "I suggest we take immediate steps to remove Rasputin from the palace before he gains even more dangerous levels of power and leads us right over a cliff."

He got a strong applause. "If that didn't sway you," the dowager spoke up again, "Count Vladimir also has a story to tell." Noticing the family's cool reaction to his name, she added, "He too has been harmed by this cunning fiend, as he will tell you."

Vladimir trudged to the front of the room, his shoulders drooping. "Fellow Romanovs," he said slowly, "Prince Mikhail Andronikov had been my friend since we had been boys. When this war broke out, it was only natural we start running an enterprise together for the war effort."

"Yeah, you two profiteer wonderfully," a prince in the back row cracked. Vladimir paid him no heed. "Then Mikhail fell in with Rasputin," he lamented, "The next thing I know, he was insulting me, shouting that I had held him back for years, that I was..." he cracked, almost ashamed with himself, "a fat fool, a waste of life. And then last month, I discovered he had squeezed me out of our business and taken all the funds. I have nothing now," he hung his head, "And I've lost a dear friend too. I used to like Rasputin when he first appeared, but to see him corrupt Mikhail against me-this hurts me, my friends. We must do something before this happens to the rest of us."

"I agree," Yusupov rose up, determination on his face, "I say we take care of Rasputin this very night! I say we take him to my palace on the Moika and poison him...!"

"I do not approve of murder, Felix," Maria Feodorovna glared him down, "I want no blood on Romanov hands. What I am proposing," she addressed the entire Romanov clan, "Is your names on a formal resolution to Alexandra demanding Rasputin's immediate and permanent banishment from the capital, if not the country. She cannot ignore the weight of all of us demanding this. Who agrees to this?"

Almost every hand in the room shot up. "Very well then," the dowager smiled softly, "The manifesto is up here with me; sign it before you leave, and I'll deliver it to the palace personally. Our voices will be heard."

* * *

"How...dare you!" Alexandra, however, was far from accommodating when her mother-in-law handed her the document, "Does your hate for him...know no bounds!?"

"Call Nicholas at once and tell him of our resolution, Alexandra," Maria Feodorovna demanded her, "He will have to know...!"

"He...needs not know," without changing what appeared to be a blank expression, the tsarina tore up the manifesto, "He...has heard enough hate towards Father Rasputin from you and them, so this...has no purpose being read by him."

"This is our entire family speaking through this!" the dowager roared at her, "We will not let you help him ruin Russia by blindly following his every demand!"

"He...is a good and holy man...not like you or them," Alexandra frowned blankly at her, "You will never understand..."

"Oh I understand perfectly. I've taken a look at the people this so-called holy man has asked you to appoint to high office. Beletsky to head the Department of Police again!?" she held the list right in Alexandra's face, "Haven't you forgotten that Nicholas dismissed him from that post for overstepping his bounds in that capacity!? Khvostov for Interior Minister!? The man is power-mad! Protopopov for Prime Minster!? He's mentally deranged!" Volzhin to head the Synod!? He's never even served as a priest! Komissarov for...are you even listening to me!?"

Alexandra continued to star blankly ahead into space, as if she really wasn't there. The dowager waved a hand in front of her face. The tsarina did not react at all. "Has he done something to you!?" she asked her daughter-in-law sharply, "Has he...!?"

"I have merely shown her the light," Rasputin stepped out from behind the throne, tapping at his robe for whatever reason, "Now she is in a higher state of pure bliss."

"You!" Maria Feodorovna could barely contain her rage, "We have decided, the entire Romanov family: get out! Out of the palace, out of St. Petersburg, out of...!"

"Temper, temper," Rasputin coolly patted her on the shoulder, "You know as well as I do the entire future of your empire depends on me taking care of your grandson. You wouldn't want to endanger his future because of some petty jealousies, would you, Madame?"

"You are already endangering his future, sir!" she snarled at him, "And I will not permit...!"

The phone next to the throne rang. Still looking blank, Alexandra picked it up. "Yes," she said distantly into the receiver, "I see. Father, Alexei needs you again," she told Rasputin, "He got a nosebleed on the train back from the front; he's very, very bad right now."

"Don't let him do anything!" the dowager warned her, "How do we know he didn't cause this in the first place!?"

"Tsk, tsk," Rasputin smiled smugly at her, "Woe to those who see but do not believe." He picked up the phone. "Alexei Nikolaevich, I tell you truly, your nose is not bleeding. Just hang up the phone and all will be well," he assured the heir, tapping at his robe again.

"What are you doing!?" Maria Feodorovna grabbed for the robe as he hung up, "What have you got under there...!?"

"Enough," frowning, Alexandra stepped between the two of them, "I have heard...enough slander from you. I will stand...for no more."

Before her mother-in-law could respond, the phone rang again. "Yes?" Alexandra picked it up. Very good. Yes indeed. Good work, Father; he is well again," she commended a smiling Rasputin.

"He caused this, I know he did!" the dowager shouted, "I demand...!"

"Demand, demand, always demanding I do nothing to help," Rasputin almost mocked her, "She wants to ban me from the palace, your Highness; I suggest we do the same to her," he told the tsarina.

"You will not!" the former empress shouted, "I refuse to abandon the children to you! And I don't care what you say!" she upbraided Alexandra, not caring to hear her words her daughter-in-law was saying about never setting foot in the Winter Palace again, "You're not speaking of your own free will, so your word is not binding to me! And don't think you're safe because you've taken over her mind!" she threatened Rasputin, "One way or another, we will remove you, with or without Nicholas's consent!"

She stormed out of the throne room. Inside her head her mind was racing. That had been the last option she could think of. And Nicholas wouldn't believe anything unless he saw it for himself, she knew. And Rasputin would probably make sure he stayed at the front, out of his way. And since they couldn't kill Rasputin-that would make the Romanovs no better than him, she knew-they were at a dead end.

She kept bustling until she reached the palace chapel. She sank slowly to her knees at the altar and stared up at the stained-glass window of Jesus above it. "Please Lord Jesus, help me," she prayed the glass window desperately, "The devil is taking over here, threatening to destroy everything my family has worked for for the last three hundred years. Show me the way to stop him, for I don't know how to any more."

There was no immediate answer from the Christ image. She hoped one would come soon, though-very soon. In the meantime, she knew she had to put together a contingency plan, and that meant calling Sophie in Paris once she was done praying, a call that could at least ensure the survival of at least one Romanov in case the worst came to pass.

* * *

LATER THAT EVENING...

"Alexei?" Anastasia called out, sticking her head in the throne room door with Joy in her arms. Her brother had been rather quiet getting off the train and had kept to himself since returning to the palace. In the darkened throne room, she could see him sitting on the throne, staring ahead. "Go on, go to him and cheer him up," she told Joy, lowering the dog to the ground. Joy eagerly took off towards Alexei, barking. The heir did in fact smile at the sight of the door and eager scooped him up. "He missed you almost as much as we did," Anastasia told him, following Joy to the throne.

"I missed him too," Alexei laughed as Joy licked his face, "I was just glad to see Papa, though, and I think he felt the same way; General Evert told me he'd been feeling kind of down without us around."

"I just wish the war could end so we could have him back here," Anastasia plopped down in her mother's throne next to his, "It's not the same without him. So is he holding up well?"

"He's trying, but I think the strain's starting to get to him," Alexei admitted, "In fact, earlier in the week, I heard him...crying when he thought I was asleep, asking God why all this was happening, why everything was being put on his shoulders. I mean, that's Papa; he's not...he's a tsar; tsar's aren't supposed to cry. I've never seen him that upset before."

"Will he consider looking for peace, then?"

"No," the heir shook his head, "He's sticking to his promise to Britain and France to fight till the end. I just hope General Brusilov's new offensive works, because I heard him tell the staff he can't think of anything else that will work."

He sighed and stared up at the brand new tricentennial chandeliers that had been hung recently in preparation for the grand celebration at the end of the year. "Three hundred years of history and heritage," he remarked, handing his sister her dog back, "Some day it's going to be all on my shoulders. Maybe I'll think differently then, but after having been at the front and seeing what's expected of a tsar, I'm not sure I'll be able to handle it. And I'd hate for everything to come to an end because of me..."

"It won't, Alexei," Anastasia patted him on the shoulder, "You're going to be the best tsar Russia ever had, I just know it. One day they're going to build monuments to you because you'll have done so well."

"I hope so," Alexei seemed somewhat more comforted. "And what about you, then?" he asked her, "Where will you be then? Married off to some prince in one of our allies' kingdoms? You say it's not the same around here without me; it certainly won't be the same without you. Just promise you'll never forget me or any of us if it comes to that."

"Forget you?" she almost laughed, "Alexei, how could I ever forget about you, or anyone else here?"

Before Alexei could say anything, there came a loud moan from under the floor. "The hospital," he remarked, sliding off the throne, "Aren't Olga and Tatiana taking care of them down there?"

"I don't think anyone looks after them down there after dark," Anastasia shook her head, "Come on, let's go down and see if anyone needs anything-wait," she broke off as her brother started for the door, "You go on; I've got something to get first."

She bustled back to her room, Joy ambling along at her feet. She opened her desk drawer and hesitantly took out several dozen more cards like the ones she'd given her father. "I hope these will work," she told her dog hesitantly, sweeping it up, "I hope Olga isn't right that this is silly and pointless."

She took a deep breath and headed for the hospital wing in the basement. No one was standing guard at the door, which Alexei was waiting patiently at for her. The two of them entered cautiously. Beds filled with wounded men stretched to the far wall, some of them groaning. One in particular, with his leg elevated in bandages near the door, was apparently having a particularly bad time of it. Anastasia approached him first. "How bad does it hurt?" she asked him hesitantly.

The man jumped in surprise. "Oh," he exclaimed upon seeing her, "I didn't expect to see you or...the heir," he noticed Alexei behind her, "Everyone, the heir is here," he called to the other soldiers in the infirmary, who all (or at least all with the ability to do so) rose up in rapt attention.

"We, uh, just heard everyone down here and thought you might need some help," Alexei shuffled about uncomfortably, "Well, actually, it was her idea," he pointed at his sister.

"If you don't mind, I've been making some of these; I hope you'll like them," Anastasia hesitantly handed the soldier with the broken leg a card. She sucked in a deep breath, hoping he would find it all right. In fact, though, a wide smile crossed his face. "Well, that's the nicest thing anyone's done for me since I was brought here," he told her warmly, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she breathed a sigh of relief, "Where were you hurt at?"

"Lodz; rifle blast to the leg," he told her dismally, "I'll spare you what the doctors said about it. I just want it to heal up enough so I can go back home."

"Where are you from?"

"Tsarytsyn. Private Ivan Turganov, your Highness," he humbly bowed to her.

"Oh that's too formal; I'm just Anastasia," she said. She walked over to the next bed, where another soldier had bandages over his eyes. "Are you blinded?" she asked him, patting his hand to get his attention.

"Looks like he was in a gas attack," Alexei shook his head softly, "Some of the troops we sent forward last week were caught in one; a lot of them looked like this afterwards."

"Yeah, the Germans hit us with mustard gas at Lake Naroch," the man mumbled softly, "At least they say everything will be better in a little while. Somehow, this whole war's being run the wrong way," he grumbled, "We keep getting sent right into the German front lines to be shot up. Whoever the tsar's got in charge of the war effort should be thrown out immediately."

"That's Father Rasputin, but we can't get rid of him," Anastasia pressed another card into the man's hand; at least he'd have it when his sight returned, "He gets his information right from Heaven; he's indispensable."

"And he does miracles too; I know, I've been helped by a couple of them, mister," Alexei added, lifting Joy up off the floor into the man's arms after seeing the dog was scratching at the bed legs. Joy licked at the man's face, making him laugh. "I have a dog just like this back in Perm," he said, feeling for Joy's dimensions, "My children love it; even though it's older than I am in dog years, I can't very well get rid of it; it means too much to them."

"Joy bring us lots of happiness too, sir," Anastasia scooped the dog back up. Had she looked down the room to the very end at that moment, she might have seen a wall panel opening up and a small face of someone about her age looking out. As it was, though, her attention was caught by the strumming of a balalaika on the other side of the room-a balalaika strumming a familiar tune. "I love that song," she exclaimed, bustling over to the soldier with the broken arm casually strumming away, "My Grandmama sings it to me all the time. It's our special song, really."

"She's got good taste then, your Highness," the soldier smiled, "I play that to my precious Raisa back in Yalta; she's pretty much about your age, in fact. And she knows it line for line. So I play it as often as I can to help remind me of her, and that some day soon I'll be heading back there to see her again. It's been far too long since I have been able to hold her close."

"We know how you feel, sir," Alexei approached the bed, "We miss our father too."

"Sir? I'm just Basil Rodansky, your Highness," he laughed at the tsarevich's formality, "Well, that's encouraging to know the royal family isn't that different from us common folks after all; we both think the same way about being separated from each other. Well, since we both know the song well, let's chase those blues away for a moment."

He gave the balalaika a strong strum. "Dancing bears, painted wings, things I almost remember," he started singing, "And a song someone sings once upon a December."

"Someone holds me safe and warm," Anastasia eagerly took up the next verse, "Horses prance through a silver storm. Figures dancing gracefully, across my memory."

"Far away, long ago," every other soldier in the vicinity joined in as well, "glowing dim as an ember. Things my heart used to know, once upon a December."

There was widespread applause as the song finished, including from the figure looking out from behind the wall. "Yes, I like that one," Rodansky smiled, "But this is the one my Raisa likes the best. Maybe you know this one too."

He cleared his throat and strummed an opening chord on his balalaika. "We were strangers, starting out on a journey..." he began.

"...never dreaming what we'd have to go through," Anastasia smiled; she also knew this one by heart.

"...now here we are, and I'm suddenly standing at the beginning with you," they did the next line in unison.

"No one told me I was going to find you," Alexei jumped up onto the bed, "Unexpected what you did to my heart..."

"When I lost hope," the entire room joined in, "You were there to remind me this is the start..."

Before the song could go any further, though, there came unexpected clapping from the doorway. "Well done, well done indeed," smiling again, the dowager commended her grandchildren and the soldiers. "Well you two," she walked over and picked them up, "I hate to break up the moment for you two, but it is just about your bedtime, so I think maybe we should get the two of you to bed."

"First; here," Anastasia handed Rodansky the rest of her cards, pass these around to as many others as you can."

"I will, your Highness," he nodded, "Farewell for now."

"Everyone at ease," Alexei commanded the soldiers, who saluted him as he was carried gently out the door. "I think being at the front has given you too much of a military complex, Alexei," his grandmother teased him.

"If we weren't supposed to do this, Grandma, I'm..." he started to say.

"No need to be upset, Alexei," she was, on the contrary, quite proud, "You and your sister have been saying for so long how you've wanted to make a good contribution for the war. Tonight the two of you have, and you should be quite proud. You gave those men a great gift of company, something they don't get a lot here when wounded and on their own, and some day, you'll probably see how important your presence was to them."

"I would like to go back some time," Anastasia told her, "It did feel good to be with them. Maybe we can bring down Father Rasputin next time and see if he can heal them."

"No, I don't think that's a good idea at all," her grandmother shook her head.

"Why not? He helps me so many times, he's got to be able to help them get better the same way," Alexei argued. Maria Feodorovna sighed softly, coming to a stop in front of Alexei's room. She knew that if her suspicions about the self-proclaimed holy man were true, Alexei's heart would be broken. But on the other hand, he was owed the whole truth. "Alexei, you and I are going to have to have a long talk about Father Rasputin," she told him, setting him down to the floor, "But not tonight. You've had a long day, so you just rest up and have a peaceful night's sleep."

"I'll try, Grandma," the tsarevich blew her a parting kiss before he closed the door. "After all this time you still don't like Father Rasputin at all?" Anastasia seemed miffed as she and her grandmother continued up the hall to her room, "What's it going to take to warm you over to him?"

"I'm afraid, my dear, it's probably a lost cause between the two of us," the dowager told her, "And I'm finding there's more to him than you may realize. I suppose he hasn't told you yet how he said terrible things about the Jewish people in our empire, about how he thinks they should all be destroyed?"

"What!?" the girl's eyes went wide, "But he couldn't have! He's a holy man; holy men don't say things like that!"

"You're right, holy men don't, "Maria Feodorovna agreed softly, "I guess he's kept from you that he's taking in large sums of money and not giving it away like a holy man should as well? Or that it was him who lobbied for your uncle's banishment from Russia the hardest, pressing your father to do it without giving him even a trial? Before I let you go to bed, just promise me, if Father Rasputin asks anything of you, you'll just say no, OK?"

"I, I guess so, Grandmama," Anastasia nodded, looking rather confused. As she started to enter her room, she remarked, "I can't see why anyone has problems about the Jewish people. They're Russians like the rest of us, aren't they?"

"Of course they are," her grandmother bent down to kiss her, "That's why you're my favorite grandchild; you have a heart as big as Russia itself, as all those men in the hospital would tell you right now. "Have a good night's sleep, my precious Anastasia, and remember, if you need anything at all, I'm only a phone call away."

"Good night, Grandmama," her granddaughter closed the door behind her. As Marie was already asleep, she dressed for bed quietly and softly slipped under the covers. There was a small yip as Joy leaped up onto the bed next to her, looking, she thought, a bit melancholy. "It's got to be a mistake, Joy," she told the dog softly, "He's a holy man; he wouldn't say anything that bad...would he?"

Joy merely curled up into a ball, apparently bent on getting some sleep. Anastasia stroked her pet gently behind the ears. Her gaze fell out the window at the moon in the sky. At least, she thought, her father could probably see it just as well from wherever he was now. How much, though, did she wish at the moment he could come back to St. Petersburg. He could set everything straight, she knew. Softly, so not to wake Marie, another familiar Russian folk tune wafted from her lips: "Somewhere, out there, beneath the pale moonlight, someone's thinking of me, and loving me tonight..."

* * *

"Somewhere, out there, if love can see us through," down below in the bowels of the palace, Dmitry was in fact finishing the same song, "Then we'll be together, somewhere out there, out where dreams come true."

He stared up at the ceiling and sighed. He too was appreciative of how much she'd just done for all the wounded soldiers. Still, he was frustrated with himself. The chance had been there to come out and talk to her then, and he'd lost the nerve. But what good would it have been, he told himself sadly; he had nothing to give her, and thus she would have spurned him anyway.

There came the braying of horses from outside the palace gates. Although he knew what it was, he still crawled over to the narrow window in the sleeping quarters. To keep the public from panicking, the bodies of the war dead were now being returned at night so they wouldn't realize how terrible the battles at the front were. Dmitry had a good idea, though, and he had a feeling in his stomach the army couldn't keep taking the punishment it was taking right now. And that the people couldn't take much more of the war as it was currently being fought. There was, he knew from his trips to the market, a spark of unhappiness in Russia at the moment, and if it were fanned into a flame, what was to keep Artyom's terrible prophesy about the masses rising up and destroying the princess and her family from coming true...?


	11. Zero Hour has Come

NOVEMBER 1916

"This is the last of your belongings, your Highness," the dowager's chief butler set the last of her suitcases, fully loaded, on the parlor floor.

"Thank you, Andrei," Maria Feodorovna told him softly. She trudged to the window and stared at the Winter Palace through the snow starting to fall. "I wish it didn't have to come to this, I really don't," she mumbled out loud.

"And I would still advise against it, your Highness," Feofan spoke up from the fireplace (rather than let he and Dzunkovsky be exiled unfairly, she had been sheltering them at the Anichkov Palace since their transfer orders had come through). "To run from the country with the children, without the tsar and tsarina knowing...it just doesn't comply with good Christian models of living," the bishop reminded her, "Even if it is for their benefit as you say."

"Belive me, Bishop, I've thought long and hard about this, and I'm still not sure it's the right thing to do," the dowager hung her head, "But we both know Rasputin's planning something terrible, and that he could strike at any time. Sophie told me President Poincare's arranged safe passage for me through neutral countries to Paris. The children will be safe from Rasputin if they go there, and thus the Romanov dynasty should have some insurance in case he does strike soon. So at the end of the week," she sighed sadly, "I'm going to take the five of them on what I'm going to tell Alexandra is a trip to the countryside and get them to safety in France along Poincare's route...and hope Nicholas and Alexandra can understand why."

"If only they would have believed us when we presented them with all the proof we had that he was consorting with the Khlyst, if not one himself," Feofan rued, "In a way, your Highness, this is all my fault; if I hadn't fallen for his story when he showed up on my doorstep and taken him to the sovereign..."

"Now Bishop, I'm sure he's tricked more upright people than yourself," his partner tried to assure him, "We simply couldn't find the smoking gun that would have proved beyond a doubt that he's a Khlyst. And Nicholas is too trusting, too kindred a soul not to be taken in by someone like..."

The parlor door abruptly flew wide open. "Your Highness, Bishop," Dzunkovsky came rushing in, looking excited, 'We may not be sunk yet. A high-level member of the Department of Police that's still loyal to me just called. He's been approached by a Khlyst defector; he's grown disenchanted with Rasputin and wants to turn him in. He'll be bringing him over here shortly to give us his statement."

"He will?" Maria Feodorovna's eyes lit up, "Well then, maybe I won't have to go on extended vacation with the children after all. Tell your colleague to bring him here without delay, Mr. Dzunkovsky." She rushed to the phone and started dialing. "In the meantime, Nicholas must know of this. If this is proof positive, he can't ignore this. I'm going to tell him to come back to St. Petersburg immediately, that there's an emergency afoot-and given what we know, gentlemen, I certainly won't be lying to him."

"I doubt, however, he'll come if he knows it's about Rasputin," Feofan pointed out.

"Well we're not going to tell him it's about Rasputin until he's back here in the capital," the tsar's mother said firmly, "I can only hope," she glanced back at the snow falling outside, "That this weather can hold up long enough for him to make it back."

* * *

"Now if you'll just sign this last important piece of paper, Madame, all will be good and well," Rasputin told a still-hypnotized Alexandra, handing her a piece of paper inside her personal office.

"What...is this?" she stared blankly at it.

"This executive order by you declares the Duma permanently dissolved, and its members enemies of the crown, to be arrested at will and packed off to Siberia for life," the sorcerer snickered, "This, my lady, is your final revenge-I mean, your way of enacting justice against them for trying to steal your son's throne, so if you'll just sign here at the bottom," he gestured for Bartok to hand him a pen from the inkwell, "we can ensure the tsarevich's legacy will come to pass in due time."

"As you wish, Father," Alexandra reached for the pen. Before she could take hold of it, however, there came an abrupt knocking at the door. "Mama, can I...?" came Anastasia's concerned voice.

"NOT NOW!" Rasputin roared at her. He quickly recollected himself and said more calmly, "Ah, my dear Anastasia, for what do we owe your presence?"

"Father, you have to tell me," the girl approached him hesitantly, "It's been bothering me for a while, what people have been saying about you...I don't want to believe it, but...they say you want to hurt all the Jewish people in the empire..."

"Ah, my dear child, allow me to explain everything," Rasputin pulled her close, "As Minister of War, it is my responsibility to find out why the war seems to be going so badly for us. My research has shown that it is very likely Jewish agents of the Germans wrecking the war effort, just as they have wrecked everything Russia has done for centuries. Since they'd never give up the saboteurs' names willingly, we're going to have to enact a blanket punishment to get all of them, which your mother and I will take care of in due time, I assure you."

"But you can't do that!" her eyes went wide, "They're Russians just like the rest of us! Mama, please don't do this!" she begged her mother.

"You...stay out of this...young lady," Alexandra droned blankly at her, "Father Rasputin...knows best..."

"And that is why I am here to help you, your Highness," Rasputin bowed to her.

"Helping! By killing our own people!" Anastasia was aghast, "Who are you, really?" she demanded to the sorcerer, "You look a lot less like a holy man to me now!"

"I am the light to lead Russia out of the darkness, and the force to send all who oppose what's best for the country into the pits of Hell," Rasputin growled, his blood starting to boil at the girl's attitude towards him.

"What is this?" Anastasia noticed the disbandment order in her mother's hands, "You're going to do WHAT? Mama, please, don't, we need the Duma to...Mama, are you there?" she noticed her mother's blank, hypnotized expression, "Mama, say something to me! Has he...?"

"Strike her, hard, now!" came Rasputin's harsh order. When the tsarina's hand went up, but wavered in midair, as if deep down she was trying to fight back against following such a terrible order, he shouted angrily, "I said NOW!" There was a bright flash of green, and then it happened: maintaining a blank expression and not even looking at what she was being forced to do, the empress delivered a slap to her daughter's face. Whimpering, Anastasia ran from the room. "Do not be upset, your highness, you have done the right thing just now; she had no business interfering in state affairs," Rasputin consoled his puppet, snatching up the pen from the table and shoving it into Alexandra's hand, "Now please, hurry up and sign the order, there's still so much I have left to do today."

"As you wish, Father," Alexandra lowered the pen to the paper and signed the disbandment order. "You are too kind, Madame," Rasputin eagerly snatched it away, "Now you just wait right here, and I'll be back in a little while with your final reward."

* * *

The sound of her crying led Dmitry towards the parlor. He pushed open the servants' door a crack, and was heartbroken to see her sobbing into the sofa. Her dog entered the room and nuzzled against her arm where it hung down, making her look up. "Why, Joy, why?" she lamented, scooping the dog up and cradling it, "Why is this happening to us? What's he doing to her to make her like this? I wish Papa could come home and make everything right!"

She broke down again. Dmitry felt like crying himself to see her like this. No one that beautiful should ever have to feel sad about anything, he felt.

_"Go on, talk to her_," his mind desperately urged him, _"She needs someone to talk to; you can help make her feel better_."

He started to hesitantly step into the room...but stopped midway over the threshhold, and after a moment's pause shook his head. No, he thought sadly, pushing the door closed, he wasn't good enough to be of any help to her. Everyone else was right; she needed a prince, and he wasn't worth the ground she walked on...

"Dmitry!" came Lebedev's unwelcome voice behind him, "You're not harboring any ideas about the princess again, are you!?"

"Uh, no, sir," Dmitry said quickly, spinning away from the door.

"Good. Then get down to the market immediately; we need fifty pounds of beef for tomorrow evening's banquet," the head chef ordered him.

"But I thought we...?"

"This very instant!" his superior roared in his face, "And if you're not back with exactly fifty pounds, you can forget about eating anything for a week! Now go!"

"Yes sir," Dmitry quickly scurried up the hall-bumping into a man wearing Oriental-style robes that had been hired for the kitchen staff a few weeks ago as he turned the corner. "Watch where you're going, kid!" the newcomer snarled at him.

"Please do forgive Dmitry, whatever you said your name was; this is unfortunately a common habit for him," Lebedev hauled Dmitry up off the floor and shoved him towards the exit door, "But I do believe I told you to get those stews ready for tonight's dinner a half hour ago, so get back to work yourself before I..."

Dmitry lost the rest of the head chef's threats as he pushed the door open and stepped out into the snowstorm. He couldn't resist, however, taking an apprehensive look back at the newcomer before he closed the door behind himself. There was something strange about the man, he felt, and it wasn't just his unusualy style of dress for the capital...

* * *

Dr. Badmaev glanced around the main kitchen once he arrived back there. Busy preparing the evening meals for the royal family, the rest of the kitchen staff paid no heed to him-nor did they pay any attention to the rear stoves, on which boiled the stews they and the rest of the palace's staff would be eating for dinner later that evening. The doctor approached these stoves. It was time to fufill his bargain with Rasputin.

He reached under his robe and pulled out a set of vials filled with bubbling pink liquid. Taking a final look around to make sure no one was watching, he slid from pot to pot, dumping a vial into each one until every stew had been tampered with. Satisfied, he slipped the empty vials back out of sight and walked over to the corner, trying to look casual. Moments later, unseen by everyone else, Rasputin's disembodied head appeared above him-a sure sign the Supreme Khlyst was contacting him through the relic. "Is it done, Badmaev?" he asked.

"It is, Rasputin," Badmaev whispered softly, "Everything is set for tonight."

"Excellent," his superior grinned, "Remain at your post, Badmaev, and wait for me to return with the others."

* * *

"And so the end game now begins, Bartok," Rasputin snickered to his sidekick as they walked out the palace gate, "With the Duma now out of the way," he held the disbandment order high, "There's no one left to oppose our rise to the pinnacle of absolute power. Now all that's left is the moment I've waited thirty long years for: the tearing down of the Romanovs from the throne. Once the doctor's sleeping potion takes effect, the entire palace staff, guards included, will be out cold for the next twenty-four hours. When they wake up, we'll be in control of the country, and they'll join the Romanovs in shallow graves."

He shook up the relicquary. The faces of all the Khlysts under his command appeared in the liquid. "Attention brothers and sisters of the Khlyst," he commanded then, "It is time for the final move. Return to Ipatiev Mountain by the fastest way you can manage to await further instructions."

"The only problem with your plan as you laid it out last night, sir, what about the tsar?" Bartok had to ask, "Once word of what we do reaches him, he could easily order all the troops at the front to march back and..."

"The tsar will be no threat to us, you dimwit," Rasputin proclaimed confidently, "By sunrise tomorrow, he'll be a fugitive in his own country. I'll have my puppets in the military give the order to have him arrested and brought back here to St. Petersburg a prisoner-and then I'll have the honor of personally executing the dog myself."

"Ah," the bat nodded slowly, "Oh, and one more thing, sir; you did say you were going to go over the drill with the Bolsheviks before we give the troops the big 'Let's go get them' speech, remember?"

"Indeed, and I see Bonch has assembled them already," his master signaled at the knot of men standing at the corner of Gorokhovaya Street before them. Bonch-Bruevich, already in his Khlyst robe, but with the hood down for the moment, waved him over. "Rasputin, everything is set," he told the Supreme Khlyst, "Allow me to introduce Comrades Vyacheslav Molotov, Anastas Mikoyan, Lazar Kaganovich, Sergo Ordzonikidze, Abel Yenukidze, Kliment Voroshilov, and Josef Dzugashvili; they'll be coordinating the Party's efforts with the St. Petersburg phase of tonight's operation," he introduced his companions, unabashedly decked out in their Bolshevik uniforms.

"Gentlemen, you will be participating in a great historical moment tonight," Rasputin told the revolutionaries, "I'm counting on you to effectively lead your comrades in arms in securing the capital for us once we've taken the palace. In regards to which, Bonch," he turned to his henchman, "You have specifically brought what I asked for?"

"Absolutely, Rasputin; my junior provost drew up the palace layouts as you requested. Comrade Kalashnikov!" Bonch-Bruevich barked into the nearest alley. Out of it stepped Artyom, bedecked in a Bolshevik uniform of his own, and with several large rolls of paper in hand. "Here you are, Comrade Rasputin," he handed the to the Supreme Khlyst, "I consider it an honor to assist in the destruction of the bourgeoisie tonight."

"And for this, my boy, you shall indeed be handsomely rewarded," Rasputin patted him on the head, "Now then, gentlemen," he turned back to the other Bolsheviks, "You had said you would be watching our operation's progress from atop the Trade Building?"

The men all nodded. "Very good," he continued, "I'll be going over the final rundown just before midnight tonight in the alley down the street from here," he pointed to it, "I'm counting on you to all adequately relay the instructions I give to your comrades in arms all over Russia; this strike must be instantaneous if we are to be in total control by sunrise. Now if there are no further questions at the moment..."

"I do actually have a question, Rasputin," Dzugashvili raised his hand, "Although it is more of principal than the plan. During your lectures I have attended as an attache between our groups, you state that destroying the Romanovs is tantamount. But you must realize that once they are out of the way, others will spring up to take their place..."

"And we will crush them with the same iron resolve if they so much as try to dislodge us. For you see, my dear Josef," Rasputin put an arm around the revolutionary, "from this moment on, anyone in Russia who is not with us is against us, and thus fit for complete extermination. Above all, do not question my resolve in this matter; I am more than prepared to smash anyone or anything to preserve the absolute power at stake here. And do keep in mind that if there are no enemies directly opposing us at any given time, we are free to create any enemies we choose; not only does it relieve the monotony of ruling with an iron fist, but it keeps the people nicely in place by showing them what will happen to them if they try and rise up against us."

"And I suppose that no method is too cruel to enact against our enemies, am I correct?" Dzugashvili seemed quite intrigued by the possibilities being presented to him.

"There is no such thing as morality in the Khlysts' world, Josef; whatever you wish to do, go ahead and do it," Rasputin encouraged him, "Whatever we say is right is right, and the pathetic people will learn that no matter how many necks we have to break to make sure of it."

"Very good, Rasputin; I agree with that fully," Dzugashvili stroked his mustache, pleased, "But if I may, while stop with just Russia once we are in power? Surely we can export the message to other countries and expand the realm further, crushing them in the same manner."

"Hmm," Rasputin stroked his beard thoughtfully, a spark appearing in his eyes, "I'll confess I never thought of that, Josef. Yes, that may be a path to pursue at some point in the near future. Right now, however, my focus is on the destruction of the Romanovs, so I'll ask you to focus solely on that for now, Dzugashvili."

"Actually, Rasputin, I've been thinking of changing my name for some time now," the revolutionary told him.

"To what?"

"Stalin."

"The Man of Steel. Yes, that seems quite fitting for someone of your personality, Josef. Well, at any rate, time is ticking, so you and your comrades better set about getting ready for tonight. But forget not my words from here on."

"Oh believe me, Rasputin, I will never forget," Dzugashvili looked delighted, as if he'd just received a tremendous Christmas present. He and the other Bolsheviks apart from Bonch-Bruevich hustled away down the street to make the final preparations for their actions that evening. "I don't know, sir, there's just something off with that guy," Bartok shook his head, "Heaven help us if he ever gets to a place of power like we will."

"Not to worry, my little friend; he would be no threat to us if he tried," Rasputin declared. He leaned close to Bonch-Bruevich and whispered with a growl, "Because after I finish off the Romanovs, and then the Jews, Bonch, your Bolshevik friends will become expendable and will be the next to go. So I sincerely hope your loyalties are in the right place when the time comes."

Bonch-Bruevich gulped nervously and nodded. Apparently satisfied, Rasputin strode briskly through the snow down Gorokhovaya Street. Within five minutes, he'd reached his apartment building. Varnava was waiting with about a half dozen other Khlysts in the lobby. "So this is it then?" his second in command asked him as he entered the building, "This is what we've waited all these years for?"

"It is indeed, Brother Varnava, so your green recruits won't have to complain about not seeing any action anymore," Rasputin led them all swiftly up the stairs, "By this time tomorrow, you'll be holding more power than you could possibly have imagined in your life."

"But how do we get the country to go along with it?" another Khlyst asked, "I'm not sure they'll accept..."

"I already have it well thought out, Pistolkors. Akilina, you come too; I will need you for this as well," Rasputin told his secretary as he bustled into his private office and opened the door through the demon tunnel with the relicquary. "You see, gentlemen," he continued to his followers, raising his voice to be heard over the unearthly shrieks all around them, "By dawn tomorrow, we announce that we found positive proof the tsarina had sold the country out and committed treason with her German relatives. She will have suspected I was on to her, and sent out the police to kill me. We fought them off and drove them back to the palace, and in the heat of the battle, the royal family tragically got in the way-but not before we found further evidence that the rest of the Romanovs were traitors as well; it will be so easy to draw up convincing forgeries making it look like they all sold out too. Thus, we will have carte blanche to execute them all and declare that, as the one honest man in the government, I am best fit to lead the country from here on. Given that, I will then announce that further investigation showed the Jews were working hand in hand with the empress to betray us, giving us free will to start arresting them and executing them as fast as we can manage-ah, here we are," he reached the door to the citadel and pushed it open, "Brother Varnava, assemble everyone in the meeting hall once they arrive."

"Right," Varnava led the other Khlysts to the meeting hall, which was already filling up with the other members of their brotherhood. Rasputin knew he had time before they all arrived, however. He strode into his private chambers and stared out the window. A second, different snowstorm was swirling over the Urals, blanketing Ipatiev Mountain and the surrounding peaks with deep snowdrifts. halting visibility and making the leafless, lifeless trees on the mountains look like skeletal, grasping fingers. A dark smile crossed his lips. Within hours, Makary and every other Khlyst that had suffered under the Romanovs for three hundred years would be avenged.

"I know, sir, it's lovely out there," Bartok, on the other hand, was on an entirely different train of thought, "And yeah, I know, we bats normally do hibernate through the winter, but truth is, the cold never seems to faze me that much; I think I got it off my cousin Ludwig; he married into a family of fruit bats that..."

"They're all here now, Rasputin," Pitirim mercifully stuck his head in the door. Relieved that he wouldn't have to put up with the bat's incessant rambling anymore for the moment, the Supreme Khlyst strode back into the meeting hall, where all his legions stood at rapt attention. "Brothers and sisters of the Khlyst," he proclaimed grandly, leaping up to the podium, "It gives me great pride to inform you that the time of the Khlyst's resurrection to its former glory has come. Tonight, we shall overthrow the Romanovs and reclaim our rightful position as Russia's rulers!"

There was a brief moment of silence, followed by thunderous applause. Rasputin soaked it up for a minute or so before holding up his hands for silence. "As such," he continued, scanning the crowd of evil sorcerers, "Those of you that I have decided have done the most to further our cause in our war against the tsar so far shall as a reward join me personally for the most important part of our ascension-the annihilation of the royal children."


	12. Terrorism at the Palace

"Come in, Colonel Loman," Dzunkovsky waved the nervous-looking man into the dowager's parlor, "Tell us everything, please."

"He's probably watching us right now, I know it," Loman's eyes darted all over the room.

"Then please, let us know everything about Rasputin, quickly; we can assure your safety afterwards," Maria Feodorovna urged him. Loman took a deep breath. "I joined the Khlyst six years ago," he began, "My father had been jailed under the former tsar, and I guess I blamed the entire royal family for it. At the time, Rasputin seemed to be the answer to my prayers, someone who would enact justice."

"So he is the Khlyst's leader?" Feofan pressed.

"The undisputed head," Loman told him, shivering, "Then he showed his true colors when the war started; he's insane, bent on total destruction of the existing order, and perhaps more. The war was a plan by him to destroy the army so no one would resist him when he did take over, and I'm afraid it's getting close to that point when he might try to topple the dynasty. And if he succeeds, I'm certain Russia will flow with oceans of innocent blood."

"I see," the dowager nodded grimly, "So it appears it's even worse than we thought," she said to her partners, rising firmly to her feet, "Mr. Dzunkovsky, I want an arrest warrant for Rasputin for high treason immediately; if the Department of Police won't grant one, steal a form and fill it out. Bishop, call the palace and tell Alexandra I want her to come here immediately to hear this, hypnotized or not."

Nodding firmly, Feofan picked up the phone and called the Winter Palace's number. "Strange, the line appears to be dead," he frowned when nothing could be heard on the other end, however.

"Was Rasputin planning anything at the moment!?" Maria Feodorovna grilled Loman, deeply concerned now.

"I wouldn't know; I haven't attended any of his meetings in months," Loman admitted nervously, "And he probably knows I've lost faith in his cause..."

"Bishop go to the palace personally and see what's going on," the former empress instructed him, "Mr. Dzunkovsky, get Mr. Loman into protective custody. I'm going to the station to tell Nicholas of this when he arrives," she glanced at the clock on the wall, "Which should be in the next hour or so assuming the train's running on normal schedule."

* * *

"The snow's really coming down now," Marie commented, staring out the window at the winter storm raging throughout St. Petersburg, "I haven't seen it this bad in years."

She shot a glance at her sister, sitting on her own bed staring numbly at the wall. "You sure you're feeling better?" she asked, "It could just have been the stress of running the country got to her..."

"I could see it in her eyes she wasn't really there, Marie," Anastasia rubbed the side of her face; it no longer hurt, but the memory was going to last for a long time, "It was like she was under a spell of some kind. And do you think Mama would ever have hit any of us with a clear mind?"

"No," Marie did look concerned at this point, "But I'm sure she didn't mean it. Probably before the night's over, she'll be in to say she was sorry. Funny though, all these years you've been Father Rasputin's biggest supporter here, and now you're scared he's going to do something terrible..."

"He egged her on, Marie, it was like she was his slave, like he was doing it to me himself through her. Who else knows what he's capable of?"

"Well I wouldn't worry about it too much; in fact I think you're just getting paranoid," Marie scoffed, blowing out the lamps for the night, "Now just try and sleep without getting too worked up. There's a perfectly rational explanation for this that doesn't involve Father Rasputin as a supernatural devil."

She slid under the covers. Anastasia lay down as well, but couldn't get to sleep. Regardless of what Marie said, she still had a bad feeling about everything. If Rasputin had possessed her mother, couldn't he do the same to everyone else?

There was a squeak as Joy leaped and the bed and nuzzled into the crook of her arm. "At least I know I can trust you, Joy," she whispered, hugging it close, "But who else can help us if he is dangerous?"

* * *

"I'm sorry, we just don't have any more meat," the butcher exasperatedly told Dmitry, "Our entire supply from the country has been cut off somehow."

"But I can't go back without something!" Dmitry gestured at his bag, which contained no more than five pounds of meat; apparently shortages were rampant everywhere in the capital anymore.

"And when you go back, tell the tsar we've had it with shortages!" a clerk in the back snarled furiously, "It's all his fault everything's gone to pot; if he hadn't dragged us into this blasted war...!"

"That's enough, Ippolit," the butcher told him sternly. "Come back in a week or two, and maybe we'll have something then," he told Dmitry.

"Yes sir," Dmitry shuffled out into the snow, visions of a completely empty stomach dancing in his head. Lebedev would never accept this little a supply, shortages or not. He sat down on the curb and stared listlessly up the Nevsky Prospect, looking gray and sad, just like the country's mood right now. And his own. He shivered in the cold, knowing all too well that he could freeze to death right there on the curb and no one would care in the least, because he wasn't worth caring about...

It was then that a strange zapping sound could be heard a few blocks down. Startled, he turned in its direction. A blast of green light was emitting from an alley, seemingly going up into the sky. It vanished for a moment, only to reappear again and then again-and with each appearance, the snow seemed to get heavier and heavier. Something was clicking in the back of Dmitry's mind; it seemed solely coincidence, but this looked a lot like the same lights he remembered seeing the night that...

He hesitantly made his way towards the alley and the blasts of light. Peering around the corner, he could just barely make out through the snow about forty or fifty robed figures huddled at the back of the alley. The blasts of green energy was coming from the middle of their huddle. The last blast stopped abruptly. "That should do it," came Rasputin's voice from among the crowd, "Even if they suspected something was up, they'd never come out when it's this bad. All right, gather around brothers and sisters, this is it. You, hand out the maps."

"Do not lose these, comrades," came Artyom's voice next. Dmitry frowned; what was going on here that the two of them would be working together on? He dared to creep a little closer into the alley; fortunately, the snow was falling so intensely now, the people couldn't have seen him even if they'd been looking right at him. "You know your assignments," Rasputin continued, "Those of you who have been selected to take the princesses follow these palace maps to their rooms once we're inside. If the doctor's potion worked right, the entire palace staff should be sound asleep right about now, so no one will interfere. Once you seize the princesses, take them out the back door to the river behind the palace, break the ice, and throw them in. I'll handle the tsarevich personally."

Dmitry stifled a sudden gasp. "What about the empress?" one of the robed figures asked.

"I'll make sure the empress is disposed of as well," Rasputin replied, "Then once everything's in order and we are in control of the palace, we'll go hunt down the rest of the Romanovs and slaughter them all one by one, children included. And then we'll have our military puppets arrest the tsar at the front and bring him back here to be executed."

"How will we know when you're successful in eliminating the royal family?" a figure not wearing a robe at the back spoke up.

"Keep your eyes on the palace from your perch," Rasputin told him, "Young Mr. Kalashnikov here designed a special flag for the occasion, showing the unity of our causes..." he stepped aside as a smaller figure that had to be Artyom unwound a flag, but through the snow Dmitry couldn't quite make out what was on it. "When you see this flag raised over the palace, radio your comrades in arms to start the rebellion in the capital. Just to be sure with this snowstorm, I'll also send up some fireworks, which in turn will alert the rest of our brotherhood watching outside the city to take down Romanov stooges in the rest of the country. Now are there any other questions before we meet our destiny?"

"Rasputin?" a woman's voice rose up, wavering and hesitant, "I know what we're supposed to do, but...killing sleeping children, it just sounds a little..."

"Oh, I see Khionia, you're scared, is that it?" Rasputin asked her sternly.

"Well, no, but..."

"I think you ARE!" there came another blast of green, and one of the robed figures fell to the ground, writhing and screaming. "YOU'RE A WRETCHED COWARD IF YOU HAVEN'T GOT THE SPINE TO FINISH OFF THE ROMANOVS REGARDLESS OF AGE, KHIONIA!" Rasputin roared furiously over the screams, "THERE IS NO ROOM FOR COWARDS IN THE KHLYST! SO...!

There was a loud blast of energy, and the light went blindingly bright before fading away, leaving the figure on the ground motionless. "NOW," a still livid Rasputin addressed the rest of his group, "IS ANYONE ELSE HERE A COWARD TOO!?"

Dozens of heads frantically shook no. The clock on a nearby church struck the hour. "High midnight. At any rate," Rasputin seemed delighted now, Dmitry thought, "It is time. Forward, brothers and sisters of the Khlyst, to the palace, and our return to the rightful rule of all Russia...and the end of the Romanov line...FOREVER!"

He pulled up his hood and turned towards the end of the alley. Dmitry quickly dove behind the nearest garbage can and sucked in his breath as the treacherous royal advisor walked by, holding something still glowing green in front of himself to light the way. The rest of his party, with their hoods now up as well, followed. Dmitry got a closer look at Artyom's flag as his palace nemesis passed his hiding place. He had to suppress a gulp to see it was the blood red flag of the revolutionaries with its hammer and sickle-only this one also had a big green demon skull in the center. The Khlyst were alive and well, he realized with horror, and they and the Bolsheviks had joined forces. Which meant that Russia would be plunged into a nightmare beyond words if they succeeded in taking over the country-especially for Dmitry's people, who had suffered hideous atrocities during the Time of Troubles at the Khlyst's hands. And which also meant the lives of the royal family were in grave danger, including that of the Princess Anastasia...

It was up to him to sound the alarm. He waited until he could no longer hear anyone in the alley before springing up from his hiding place. He cast one quick glance around to make sure no one else was still in there, but whoever Rasputin had been talking with was gone, perhaps having climbed up to the roof of the nearest building already. He took off running in the opposite direction the Khlysts had gone, trying desperately to make out the buildings on the Nevsky Prospect through the whiteout conditions raging now. "Help, anyone!" he cried out, "Somebody, please, help!"

But the street seemed completely deserted, with no help readily available. Dmitry saw a light blazing in a store to his left. He dashed to the door and started pounding on it. "Open up, please, this is an emergency!" he screamed. The owner came to the door, but instead of opening it, he glared at the boy, pointed to the Closed sign on the door and walked out of sight. The light went out. "No, don't, I need help!" Dmitry cried to him, but there was no answer. "Anyone, help!" he ran back out to the street, hoping there was a policeman on duty somewhere, But no one was in sight. He was all alone again, as usual...

When suddenly he ran into a large figure, sending the two of them toppling to the ground. "Crazy pedestrians," came an intoxicated voice. Dmitry's heart leaped nonetheless; it was Count Vladimir! "Mr. Vlad, the palace, the Khlyst, the country...!" he stammered, shaking the nobleman.

"Yes, the country, what a spectacular trip down the drain," Vladimir slurred, swaying wildly as he stumbled back to his feet, "And I can take the honor of saying my fall was the steepest. Say," he squinted down at the boy, "Aren't you my little friend from...?"

"Yes, yes, it's me, Dmitry!" he shouted at the count, "I need your help; the...!"

He heard the wild braying of horses and turned just in time to see the carriage appearing mere feet in front of him. He frantically dove out of its way, and Vladimir did his part as well, falling down drunk to the side of the street before he could be run over. The carriage lurched to a stop in front of them. "So there you are, Vladimir," Prince Yusupov jumped down from the carriage, shaking his head in disgust, "Your servants called that you haven't been home for hours; I could have guessed you'd been hitting the liquor again."

"Prince Yusupov...!" Dmitry tugged frantically at his coattails.

"Not now, kid," Yusupov pushed him aside. "Come on, Vladimir, let's get you home to sleep it off," he told his friend, straining to lift the heavy count back upright, "I know you're upset Andronikov turned on you, but don't be too surprised; he was sucking your blood for years, and..."

"The Khlyst are going to take over the country!" Dmitry screamed at the top of his lungs, "Rasputin's leading them; he's going to kill the royal family!"

This did the trick. Yusupov abruptly dropped Vladimir to the ground like a sack of potatoes. "Rasputin!?" he grilled the boy, worried, "When did you hear this!?"

"Just now, in the alley down there!" Dmitry pointed up the street, "He's headed for the palace right now!"

"Oh my God!" Yusupov went pale, "We've got to act fast! Vladimir, come on!" he dragged his friend into the bar to their left that Vladimir had come out of, "We've got to get you sobered up and make some calls right away!"

* * *

The palace was pitch dark as it came into sight. Rasputin nodded in delight. Badmaev had done his job well. He could make out the doctor standing right inside the palace gate. "It's all done, Rasputin," Badmaev told him when he approached, "Everyone's out cold; I checked myself."

"Very good, Badmaev," Rasputin commended him. He stepped back while the doctor reached through the bars and unlocked the gates for the Khlysts. "All right, everyone who I assigned to the princesses, go to work," Rasputin ordered them, "The rest of you form a perimeter and stand watch. Take out anyone who comes near the palace until we're done. I'm going to give the tsarina her reward."

* * *

"Well where is General Bruk!?" Yusupov shouted frantically into the bar's phone, "Well go find him and tell him to send the troops into St. Petersburg right away; this is a national emergency! Yeah, well the same to you, then!"

He slammed the receiver down and started dialing another number. On the stool nearby, Dmitry shook anxiously. Why was it so hard to get through to anyone with a crisis afoot? Every minute that passed increased the likelihood Rasputin had already struck.

Vladimir moaned softly next to him. Ten cups of coffee had started to sober him back up, but he was still a bit out of it. "So, Mr. Rasputin has been playing us from the start, huh my young friend?" he asked the boy dazedly.

"Yes, yes, he's a bloodthirsty monster!" Dmitry slid another cup of coffee in his friend's direction, "Keep drinking, please; we need to...!"

The bar's door swung open, and none other than Feofan stumbled in, half-covered in snow. "My good man, I must use your phone," he called worriedly to the bartender, "I have an important message to tell the former empress...!"

"Bishop, have you had any contact with the palace in the last hour!?" Yusupov shouted at him.

"I've been there ringing the bell at the gate for that very amount of time, Prince Yusupov, but no one answered the buzzer at all," the bishop's expression went even further south, "I suspect something is direly wrong, and Rasputin may be making a move..."

"He's going to take over the country!" the prince shouted at him, "He's on his way there now to kill the royal children!"

"My God..." Feofan went pale. His shot a glance at the clock on the wall. "The tsar should be arriving from the front any minute now if the train is still on time..."

"Unhitch one of my horses and get down there to warn him!" Yusupov ordered.

"I will," Feofan started for the door, then turned. "Dzunkovsky's at the Anichkov Palace with the former empress; have them send whatever help they can bring us besides everyone here with you now," he gave Dmitry a small knowing wink, "to the Winter Palace immediately before it's too late."

"Right!" Yusupov dialed Anichkov's number. "Dzunkovsky!?" he breathed in relief to get the former gendarme chief right away, "Listen, forget that you've been fired; call the Department of Police and get as many gendarmes out as you can...!"

* * *

Only the glow of Rasputin's relicquary illuminated the Winter Palace corridors as he crept towards the one spot of light still glowing: the tsarina's study. Alexandra was still staring straight ahead at her desk when he entered. "Father...you're back..." she droned.

"Yes, and I have a special gift for you, Madame," Rasputin told her, pulling down his hood, "Because you have done so much good for me, I hereby grant you the gift of flight."

"Flight...?"

"Yes, from now on you can fly like a bird," the sorcerer grinned darkly, "So why don't you go up to the roof and practice?"

"As you wish, Father," Alexandra rose up and stumbled towards the door. "That's the end of that old fool," Rasputin snickered to Bartok, "Now for the tsarevich."

* * *

The imperial train's whistle blew in the distance down the tracks from the railroad station. Maria Feodorovna breathed a sigh of relief. Her son had made it back safely. Now if he'd just listen to reason for once, she thought grimly to herself.

The honor guard snapped to attention as the train emerged like a ghost from the snow and pulled into the station. Glancing through the frosty windows, she saw Nicholas in his private car with his head slumped forward. She had seen him like this many a time when he had lost confidence in himself. The strain of the war was likely getting to be too much for him to run directly, she surmised, much as she had suspected it would. When the train came a full stop, he forced a stern look onto his face as he left the car. "Mother, I hope this is important," he told her with more than a little gruffness as he climbed out onto the platform, "And this better not be about..."

"The children!" came the desperate cry from the edge of the platform. With a thundering of hooves, Feofan rode his borowed horse across the planks like lightning, sending more than a few members of the honor guard scattering. "The children, your Majesty; the Khlyst are going to the palace to kill the children this very minute!" he gasped, breathless as he brought to horse to a stop directly in front of the tsar.

"What!?" Nicholas's eyes went wide, "Are you sure!? The Khlyst have been dead since...!"

"They're alive and well, your Majesty, I can confirm that for you without doubt," the bishop told him, "And I can tell you that Rasputin is the leader; he planned everything and is leading the attack!"

"It's absolutely true, Nicholas," the dowager told her son, unable to suppress her own horror at the information her partner had just delivered, "We even have a confession from one of them who switched to our side. So NOW will you believe us!?"

"My God!" Nicholas stumbled backwards in shock, apparently believing it this time indeed. "All of you, to the palace immediately!" he shouted to the honor guard, "We mustn't be too late! You there!" he called desperately to the telegraph operator inside the ticket window, "Send an S.O.S. signal to every unit around the capital right now!"

* * *

"Shhh," Rasputin hissed to Bartok, approaching Alexei's room, "Not a sound. And find a place to stay out of the way; this must be done delicately."

Bartok made a zipping gesture over his lips and mumbled something with his mouth closed to signal his agreement. Rasputin rolled his eyes. He seized the doorknob and slowly turned it. Alexei slept soundly in the dark room, unaware of the danger nearby. Rasputin quietly walked towards him. This was going to be quick and easy, he thought with a dark smile. He reached for the relicquary...

...noticing in the corner of his eye Bartok landing on top of a globe atop the edge of a nearby shelf for a better look at what was going to happen...a globe that immediately started tipping forward under the bat's weight. "_No!" _Rasputin frantically waved at him to get off it, but it was too late; the globe toppled off the shelf, shattering loudly on the floor. Alexei immediately bolted upright in bed, panicked. He gasped when he saw Rasputin right next to him in the darkness. "Don't be afraid, Alexei Nikolaevich," Rasputin hissed, raising the relicquary high, "It is merely I, Father Rasputin, come to ease your suffering-permanently."

* * *

Anastasia jerked up in bed at the sound of the loud crash just down the hall. She gulped loudly. "Marie!" she hissed softly, jumping out of bed and shaking her sister, "Marie, wake up!"

But Marie merely snored and rolled over. Anastasia took a deep, nervous breath. She approached the door and hesitantly opened it. The hallway was absolutely dark, which it had never been before as far as she could remember. She groped for a candle on the writing table and lit it. "Hello?" she called out softly, walking cautiously down the hall towards where the crashing sound had come from, "Mama? Olga? Anyone?"

She froze at the sound of footsteps behind her. She spun-but there was nothing there...or had there been a figure in the darkness...?

_"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid_," she echoed her father's parting words before he left for the front nervously. Before she could dare to see if it had been real, however, a flash of light caught her attention down the hall. She blinked hard. Yes, it was real, and it appeared to be coming from Alexei's room. "Alexei!?" she called out, worried. There was no answer, but the light flashed again, and she heard what sounded like a loud, crazed laugh. Her heart rate skyrocketing, she ran for the light as fast as she could. She stuck her head in the door-and immediately gasped. There was Rasputin, standing right over her brother, and zapping him with green bolts of light of some kind from a strange object in his hand. This in turn was making Alexei bleed all over. He gasped and wretched from the treatment, which seemed to make Rasputin laugh harder and also make the insane look in his eyes get even wilder. Alexei caught sight of his sister in the doorway and desperately mouthed, "_Help me!"_ at her. "STOP IT!" the scream rose from her throat like a volcano erupting, "LEAVE MY BROTHER ALONE!"

Rasputin spun at the intrusion. "_You!_" he hissed, firing a blast of energy at her from the strange device. Anastasia hit the floor just in time to avoid it. She tossed her candle at Rasputin, but it missed-although it did distract him enough to allow her time to scramble frantically across the floor towards Alexei. Rasputin, however, jumped into her path and fired another blast at her that just missed as well, hitting the bookcase behind her instead and sending a cascade of titles down on top of her. There came a sudden yipping from the doorway. Joy rushed into the room, teeth bared. "Joy, no, don't!" she cried to her pet, who nonetheless leaped straight at Rasputin. Looking almost bored, Rasputin fired another burst of energy straight into the dog. "NO!" Anastasia screamed again as her pet hit the floor upside-down and motionless. "Joy, no, don't be...!" she shook it desperately, but it was no use; the dog was no more. A strong rage boiled up inside her, one that got higher as she saw the sorcerer turning back to Alexei to finish what he'd started, his arm rearing back with the now smoking and glowing relicquary. "YOU MONSTER!" she roared, grabbing hold of the relicquary before he could fire it at her brother and pulling it backwards.

"Get off of that you little worm!" Rasputin thundered, shaking the relicquary up and down to make her let go, "How dare you defy the most powerful man in Russia!?"

With a strong flick of his wrist, he sent her rolling against the wall. Looking up, Anastasia saw one of the palace's alarm buttons right above her. She desperately leaped for it, only to feel something powerful seize her in mid-air. A long ribbon of green energy from the relicquary had seized her around the midsection and was pulling her relentlessly backwards towards Rasputin. She frantically reached and strained for the button as the force of the spell pulled her away from it. Finally, with one last lunge, her palm slammed down on the button. The palace's alarm sounded shrilly. "I wouldn't have done that," Rasputin chided her sternly, reaching his ominously long fingernails towards her, "No one's going to hear it to save you anyway, Anastasia Nikoleavna."

"HELP!" she pushed the window open as far as it would go as she flew past it and screamed out it anyway, praying someone would hear her cries, "ANYONE, PLEASE...!"

Another blast of energy hit her head-on, and suddenly Anastasia felt her throat contracting. She gasped desperately for air, unable to say a word. Rasputin hauled her up in the air. "Clearly I should have taken care of you first," he snarled.

There came footsteps in the doorway. Pitirim and Varnava had arrived. "Well, what took you so long!?" Rasputin upbraided them, having to shout to be heard over the alarm, "You were supposed to take care of this one; now look what she's done!"

"Well, uh, we were looking all over when she wasn't in her..." Pitirim tried to explain.

"Never mind!" his superior flung Anastasia roughly into the sack Pitirim was holding, "Just get the little brat to the river and drown her! I'm going to finish off her dear little brother before anything else goes wrong!" He turned back to Alexei, frozen solid in fear in his bed at everything that had happened. "Now where were we...!?"

Suddenly a blinding light filled the room. "What the...!?" Varnava jumped back into the hallway out of the light, only to have the hall be illuminated as well. "Members of the Khlyst!" barked Dzunkovsky's voice from outside over a loudspeaker, "In the name of the tsar, surrender now or face the consequences!"

"I surrender!" Bartok immediately threw up his wings in defeat, "I'll go along quietly, officer, don't shoot! I'm too young to die; I'm too well-traveled to die; I'm too ME to die!"

"Oh grow a backbone you miserable flying rodent!" Rasputin swiped at the bat. He calmly kicked the window open all the way and fired a sharp blast of energy from the relicquary that blew out the searchlight trained on the room with a shower of sparks. Another blast put out another searchlight. Bullets began flying towards the room. "Are you sure that was a good idea!?" Varnava shouted, ducking to the floor.

"They wouldn't dare try anything knowing the children are in here!" Rasputin shouted back, "And as you'll see, you stupid fool, I'm going to make absolutely sure they can't interrupt us."

He fired at the ground near the palace's gate. Slowly but surely, a large green energy bubble rose up over the palace covering it and the river behind it. Bullets could still be heard being fired, but they now bounced off the bubble harmlessly. "This palace is now a fortress," Rasputin told his top lieutenants, "And they can't get in to get us. So just take care of your duty and let everyone else handle these interlopers."

"Right," Pitirim glanced down in time to see Anastasia trying to climb back out of the sack. He shoved her down into it and tied it tightly shut. He and Varnava carried it out the door, looking a bit more confident now. "That had to be the quickest alarm reaction I've ever heard of," Bartok commented, staring out the window at the gendarmes in the street below still firing futilely at the protective bubble, "If didn't know any better, sir, I'd say they knew we were here ahead of time."

"Well it doesn't matter now," Rasputin tapped the relicquary. The faces of the Khlysts on his strike force not assigned to capture the princesses appeared. "Attention all of you," he commanded, giving the thumbs up to Martemian and Augustin passing by Alexei's room carrying another squirming sack, "Don't be alarmed by this minor setback. They can't get into the palace now, and you now have a perfectly clear view of them outside thanks to the protection I just put in place (indeed, the gendarmes in the street below could be seen clear as day through the bubble despite the heavy snow). So mow them down-all of them."

He started to turn back to the bed, but saw only a flash go by him, as Alexei had finally gotten the nerve to run for his life. "Get back here!" the sorcerer shouted, chasing after him into the hall, "There will be no escape from the great Rasputin, Alexei Nikolaevich, and no one can save you now!"


	13. Battle for the Soul and Future of Russia

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As this shall be the "Final Battle" chapter, parents may wish to read ahead just to be sure they consider everything OK for their children; there should, however, be no problems with both ages reading together, I don't think. Moving along then...

* * *

"Stop, stop the carriage!" Nicholas shouted to his driver, who pulled his team to a halt at the edge of the palace square. The tsar slowly slid from the carriage. "Oh my God!" he mumbled softly, seeing the huge green bubble over the palace.

"Your Majesty, get down!" Dzunkovsky leaped on him and pushed him to the ground just before a bolt of blue magic slammed into the cobblestones inches from where he'd been standing. "This way, quickly!" he dragged the sovereign into a cafe on the right side of the square. "Your Highness, Bishop, come out of harm's way too!" he waved the dowager and Feofan to safety as well. "Tell me you know how to get through that thing!" the tsar pointed out the window at the bubble, from inside of which bursts of magic and a few bullets were roaring out towards the gendarmes in the square.

"We're trying your Majesty, we're trying!" Dzunkovsky said exasperatedly, "Bullets won't work; we're going to try dynamite any minute now. "Everything set!?" he shouted out the window toward a pair of gendarmes connecting the wires of a ton of explosives set up right against the bubble to a detonator.

"Just a minute," one of the gendarmes called back, "OK, we're set."

"Now!" Dzunkovsky ordered. A large blast rocked the square, but when the smoke cleared, the bubble was completely intact. "Curses!" Dzunkovsky slammed his fist on the windowsill in frustration, "I don't know what else to do; that was the strongest thing we have!"

"Well try anything, man, come on!" Nicholas seized him by the collar, "My family's in there, for the love of God! Get a backhoe and dig a tunnel or something, or even...!"

He broke down and stumbled over to the corner. "Nicholas?" his mother walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, concerned.

"I've failed, Mother," he lamented tearfully, "I've failed the troops at the front, I've failed my country, and now I've failed the entire Romanov family. I'm a pathetic excuse for a tsar, and I let you and Father down. I can't even protect my wife and children," he gestured miserably at the palace, "He was right; it should have been Michael who got..."

"Nicholas, you must stop comparing yourself to your father," Maria Feodorovna told him encouragingly-or at least as encouragingly as she could manage given the situation, "He was his own man, so you must be your own. In many ways, in fact, you're a better man than he was; you care in ways he..."

"He was a real tsar," Nicholas refused to let go of it, "He was strong, he was firm, he knew what to do every time there was a problem..."

"...and he unleashed the government against its own people time and time again," the former empress grimaced as she admitted her husband's sins, "By refusing to do so when Rasputin demanded you do, you proved yourself a better ruler, Nicholas. Maybe you aren't the ideal image of a tsar as so many see it, but I believe..."

Her sentence was cut off as a rather loud spell screamed through the sky and landed dangerously close to the cafe, rattling the windows and sending everyone inside diving for the floor. Another blast crashed into a barricade in the square, sending a pair of gendarmes flying backwards, screaming. "They've got us pinned down!" another one screamed towards the cafe.

"How many of you are left!?" Dzunkovsky cried out the window.

"No more than fifteen or so!" the gendarme shouted back, "And we're just about out of ammo too!"

"Someone call through to General Bruk, immediately!" Nicholas squirmed up to the window.

"We've tried that, your Majesty," Yusupov spoke up from the back of the room, reloading his pistol, "No one has a clue where Bruk is! For all we know, Rasputin could have ordered him away from St. Petersburg until he was in total control!"

"Well try again, please!" the tsar begged him, "We need as many people as we can get with this!"

"Your Majesty, we've called everyone we could think of!" Dzunkovsky said in frustration at their bad luck, "But the nearest unit's eighty miles away, and it'll take all night for them to get here with this cursed blizzard going on, by which point it'll probably be too late! I'm sorry, but there's just no one left to call!"

"Wait," Feofan held up his hand, "Do you hear that? It sounds a lot like trucks. Maybe God will answer our prayers after all."

"How can it be...!?" Yusupov trailed off as the sounds got louder. Keeping his head down, Nicholas crawled to the door and stared down the Nevsky Prospect. Sure enough a convoy, including trucks and artillery guns and at least a few dozen soldiers, came marching out of the storm. The lead truck braked to a stop right in front of the cafe, and out of it abruptly climbed...

"Michael!?" the tsar gasped to see his brother for the first time in almost five years.

"Nicholas," Michael greeted him formally, "What's going on here?" his eyes turned magnetically to the magical shield protecting the Winter Palace.

"It's Rasputin; he's trying to take over; if we don't get inside the palace soon, the children and Alexandra will be dead. Oh my son," the dowager flung her arms around him happily, "I've worried for you for nights on end since you left. Where have you been, and where did you get all this?" she pointed at the convoy, "And how did you know...?"

"I've been fighting in the Caucasus, Mother," Michael explained, "I sneaked back in once war broke out; I've been fighting the Turks under an assumed name. Once word reached the front of the strange changes at the top of the government, though, I surmised something dark was going on, and Rasputin could be up to no good. And I knew if he could do what he did to me, he could do the same to the rest of my family. So once I was certain something was amiss, I took my best men," he gestured at his command, "And brought them back to the capital just in case something like this," he pointed at the palace, "happened; we would have been here sooner if not for the weather and the roads' bad conditions. So, now that I'm here," he turned back to his brother, "What are your orders, your Majesty?"

"How many troops did you bring?"

"About forty or so came directly with me; perhaps another eighty should be no more than a half hour back of me; I didn't want to weaken the line too much even though the Turks and Bulgarians aren't putting up too much resistance right now."

"Well," Nicholas still seemed overwhelmed that help, and familiar help at that, had in fact arrived, "Well, General Romanov, I guess it is then, bring up the big guns to the front, and see what impact they might have on this thing. Maybe if we fired them all in unison, that would do something. But let's be quick about it; our time's running very short here. But before you do, Michael..."

Michael turned as he'd been leaving to carry out the order. Nicholas lowered his head, "Before you do, Michael, I'm sorry I didn't believe you," he admitted solemnly, "I know the truth now; no few than three aide-de-camps at the front under me who knew Colonel Wulfert made it clear to me he is an abusive drunkard. I hope, if we can survive this, that you can find it in yourself to forgive me for the pain I've put you through all these years."

"Yes, it was painful, both for me and for Natalia," Michael strode gravely towards his brother. Then he broke into a smile. "But of course I accept it. You are my brother, after all."

"Thank you," Nicholas breathed in relief, "And as for your final question to me before you left Russia, I can say now that yes, I would have done the same thing for Alix in the same situation, and I hope to do the same for her now when she needs me the most. So let's get to it then."

"Right, your Majesty. All right, men!" Michael called to his command, "Let's get the big pieces front and center in the square, double time!"

* * *

"Hmm," a much more sober Vladimir tapped at the bubble on the west side of the palace, well away from the main fighting, "Pretty hard, but at least it doesn't look like it's dangerous."

"Well come on then, break through it, somehow, anyhow!" Dmitry urged him. Vladimir stepped back and gave the bubble a hard kick-and immediately hopped backwards, clutching his foot in agony. "That won't work," he grimaced, "Maybe we should get a jackhammer somewhere and try..."

"WHERE ARE WE GOING TO GET A JACKHAMMER!?" Dmitry all but screamed at him. Vladimir looked at him strangely. "Sorry, sorry," the boy apologized, "It's just that I'm really worried; she could already be dead by now."

"She who?" Vladimir inquired. Before Dmitry could tell him, Yusupov came running up. "So here you are, "he told his friend, "Better clear out; Grand Duke Michael's here; he's going to be sending the tanks over here in case this side's weaker than the front of this thing. I'm not too optimistic, though," he stared ruefully at the bubble, "This thing looks pretty impenetrable. If only there was some way like through the sewers or underground that we..."

"Wait a minute," Dmitry's face lit up, "Maybe, if it's still outside all this..."

He broke into a run. "Wait, if what's outside?" Vladimir huffed to keep up with him.

"The servants' back entrance," Dmitry told him breathlessly, "I use it all the time when I bring the food back to the palace; it comes right out by the river...YES!" he shouted in delight, for the hidden door was, as far as he could see, unprotected by the bubble. He ran to a pale patch of concrete alongside the river and strained to lift it up. A stairway down into the darkness could be seen. "This leads straight to the servants' quarters," he told the two noblemen excitedly, "We could come up on them from underneath and catch them by surprise! And then we can go get the soldiers in the hospital if we need more men!"

"Yes, it's perfect," Yusupov snapped his fingers, "I'll go tell the tsar immediately...I know how to make it better; we'll have Grand Duke Michael set up a terrific barrage on the other side of the palace to draw Rasputin's attention while we go in...yes, that'll do nicely."

He practically skipped off to tell the sovereign of the find. Dmitry rushed into the tunnel without waiting for them. "Whoa, whoa, hold up my young friend," Vladimir rushed after him, "You can't seriously be considering going in here alone!?"

"I have to," the boy shouted back, "I know he'll do something terrible to her if...!"

"Her who? Who is it you care for so much that you'd be willing to do all this?" the count inquired.

"The princess...the Princess Anastasia. I know she'd never seriously consider me worth her love, but..."

"Ah. Ah, I should have guessed," Vladimir nodded, "Yes, I can see quite why-she always lights up every room with her presence. When I..."

The roar of guns could be heard; the diversionary attack was in progress. "Well, at any rate, why don't we keep moving?" Vladimir took Dmitry's hand and bustled him down the tunnel, "Traffic's going to pick up in here real quick real soon."

In a minute or two, the two of them popped up in the servants' quarters. Several staff members were slumped over tables and beds, snoring loudly. "Well, our invaders certainly came prepared," the count remarked, "Either that or life here's gotten too slow to..."

"Do you hear that?" Dmitry held up his hand. Indeed, a pistol could be heard firing on the other side of the wall. Vladimir slipped it open a crack. "Mikhail!" he gasped. Sure enough, his former friend, in Khlyst uniform but with the hood down, was shooting out a window in the wine cellar towards the square, laughing as he did. "That lousy so and so!" the count grumbled, "To think I trusted someone like him who'd...!"

There came a sound much like thunder from behind them, of dozens of feet pounding up the tunnel. The tsar was on his way. "...good work, Yusupov," his voice came wafting through the rooms, "We would have looked for hours if you hadn't pointed this out. Again, I wish you'd stay where it's safe, Mother."

"I'm not leaving until I know all the children are safe, Nicholas," the dowager could be heard saying firmly. The footsteps grew louder until dozens of armed troops poured into the servants' quarters. "Where...?" Michael spoke up loudly, glancing with confusion around the unfamiliar rooms.

"Psst," Vladimir waved him over and put his finger to his lips. He pointed out the door, where Andronikov was firing again after having reloaded. "Ha ha!" he shouted confidently, "Take that you no-good fools! I, Mikhail Andronikov, am now the most powerful Romanov of all; you shall bow before me before this night is over!"

"Andronikov!" Nicholas murmured in disgust over Dmitry's shoulder. The tsar pushed the panel open, stormed up to the prince, who had his back to him and didn't see him coming, and tapped Andronikov hard on the shoulder. "Just a minute, OK!?" the prince shouted without turning around. "Take this!" he barked delightedly, firing off some more shots, "Why don't you just give up and go home; there's no way you can...!"

He abruptly stopped firing and froze up. Again without turning around, he slowly reached back and felt Nicholas's shoulders and beard. He gulped loudly. "You're not Rasputin, are you!?" he asked weakly.

"Andronikov!" Nicholas roared, spinning him around, "How dare you do this!?"

"This, this, this, this isn't what it looks like, your Majesty!" Andronikov pleaded desperately, "This...this...this...this is all a frame-up, yes, that's it, a frame-up! Rasputin, he put me up to it; said he'd kill me if I didn't...Vladimir, old friend!" he'd noticed the count behind the tsar, "Old friend, we've known each other so many years, you know I would never...!"

"Yes, Mikhail Mikhailovich, I've known you for years," Vladimir advanced towards him, glaring, "But you are no friend of mine."

He decked the prince hard, sending him crashing to the floor. Nicholas kicked Andronikov's gun away and hauled him back up. "All right Andronikov, I'd better get some answers!" he roared, "Where are my wife and children!?"

"I don't know!"

"I SAID, WHERE ARE THEY!?"

"I SWEAR I DON'T KNOW!" Andronikov begged, "I'm just a low-level man, believe me; he wouldn't tell...!"

Dozens of rifles were pressed against his head. "OK, OK!" he whimpered, "Rasputin's going to throw your children in the river; the tsarina's going to walk right off the roof; she's probably halfway to the edge now!"

"Dear God!" the tsar grimaced in fear, "How many men has he got here?"

"About sixty or seventy or so; I wasn't keeping count!"

"That does mean we're outnumbered right now, though," Michael shook his head, "And I can't guarantee when my reserves might arrive..."

"What about the troops in the hospital?" Yusupov relayed Dmitry's suggestion, "There's got to be over a hundred of them; some of them can walk and carry weapons..."

"Yes, that might do it," Michael snapped his fingers, "As long as..."

"Hey Prince, what's going on down...?" another Khlyst abruptly appeared in the nearest stairway out of the wine cellar. "WHOA!" he gasped in shock to see dozens of royal troops already inside and bolted back up the stairs before any of them could get a shot off. "After him, someone!" Nicholas commanded, "We can't let him sound the alarm!"

A pair of troops rushed up the stairs. "All right, I'm going to find my wife," the tsar told his command, his face still white at the fate the Khlysts had for Alexandra, "The rest of you, find the children before the Khlyst can do them in! Then get to the hospital and rally as many men as you can to the cause! Good luck."

"I wouldn't advise going alone, your Majesty," Dzunkovsky stepped forward before Nicholas could run off, having handcuffed a now glum Andronikov to a pipe on the wall, "I'll provide protection."

"Very well, Mr. Dzunkovsky, but let's hurry!" Nicholas rushed up the stairs out the wine cellar. "This way, then," Michael pointed down to the other end of the vast wine cellar, "Half of you go to the hospital, the rest follow me for the children. And like he says, let's hurry."

The party dashed through the wine cellar. "Vladimir, please, you've got to believe me, I'm not as bad as I may seem by this!" Andronikov made one last desperate plea to his former friend at the back of the line, "Haven't you ever wanted to advance beyond a meaningless existence in a nowhere job!?"

"Not the way you do it, Mikhail Mikhailovich," Vladimir shook his head sternly, "I'm no friend of people who would endanger the lives of children to get ahead-or who treat my real friends like garbage," he patted Dmitry on the head, "So," he hefted a heavy wine cask, "have a drink to the end of our relationship, Prince Andronikov."

He smashed the cask over Andronikov's head. The prince sputtered in shock, covered from head to toe in wine. "So long," Vladimir waved goodbye to him as he and Dmitry followed everyone up the cellar, "And try not to get too cold in Siberia."

* * *

"Come out wherever you are, Alexei Nikolaevich!" Rasputin bellowed, throwing open doors all along the second floor hallway, "You can't hide from me forever!"

"Nope, he's not up here," Bartok announced, fluttering around a chandelier overhead.

"Now how could he possibly have gotten up there, Bartok!?" the sorcerer demanded.

"Just thinking, sir, he might have chosen the last place we'd look," the bat rationalized. Rasputin groaned in frustration. He flung open the door to the main nursery and kicked the bed over. No sign of Alexei there or in the large toy chest when he kicked that open as well. "You would do well to come out and show yourself, Alexei Nikolaevich!" he roared, nearing ripping the closet door off its hinges when he threw it open, although Alexei wasn't in there either, "I am getting, very, very, tired of all this!"

"Not up here either," Bartok gazed up the fireplace flu. His master growled again. "I should have done this the easy way from the start!" he muttered, hefting the relicquary. Mist poured from it to reveal a shaking Alexei hiding inside a clock case. "Aha, I know where he is now!" Rasputin snickered, "This game will end quickly now."

* * *

"Keep down your Majesty," Dzunkovsky pushed the tsar over as they entered the Field Marshal's Hall, "No telling what could be waiting for us in here."

The hall, however, was quiet, with no sign of any life. "OK, let's see what the fastest route to the roof is," Nicholas whispered nervously, "We're probably..."

His attention was caught out the window, where in the glow of the green bubble droplets of snow could be seen falling from somewhere above the hall. "Oh no!" the tsar gasped. He dashed for the door to the balcony and threw it open. "Alix, no!" he cried up at the sky. A dark shape could be seen falling from above with a wild cry. Frantic, the tsar lunged halfway off the balcony and just managed to grab hold of his wife's ankles as she sailed by him. "Give me a hand!" he cried to Dzunkovsky, sliding over the edge towards solid concrete below, "I can't hold her much longer!"

Dzunkovsky grabbed the sovereign around the midsection and just managed to pull the two of them back onto the balcony. "Alix, Alix, are you all right!?" Nicholas shook the tsarina hysterically.

"The Father...made me...fly..." a still hypnotized Alexandra droned, "Now...I can fly...like a bird..."

"Aix, snap out of it; it's me, Nicky!" he cried desperately at her, "Tell me you know me!"

"There...is no better friend...than Father Rasputin," his wife started laughing softly. "My God!" the tsar was aghast, "Has he really...!?"

"Down!" Dzunkovsky smothered them both as magical bursts slammed into the balcony railing. A pair of Khlysts had entered the hall and were firing at them. The former gendarme chief cocked his pistol and returned fire on the sorcerers. The fat one on the right immediately fell to the floor; his thinner colleague turned tail and ran from the hall, shoving his way past another figure coming up the way the tsar had. "Bishop!?" Dzunkovksky noticed Feofan rushing up, "Didn't I ask you to stay on the outside!? You're not armed..."

"And staying on the outside would mean I'd be repudating my holy vow to help those in need. Oh my," the bishop grimaced at Alexandra's condition, "This looks like a bad curse, no doubt about it."

"Well do something then, bring her out of it!" Nicholas commanded him.

"I wish I could, but we'd have to stop Rasputin to do it in all likelihood," Feofan shook his head sadly.

"Then let's get going!" Nicholas hauled his wife up and carried her along towards the door, "The sooner we get to the hospital and get some more reserves, the better!"

* * *

"Shhh," Rasputin whispered to Bartok as they entered the drawing room the sorcerer knew Alexei was hiding in. "I don't know, Bartok, do you think he could be in here?" he asked the bat loudly.

"Who...knows...sir?" Bartok said their predetermined dialogue equally loudly and admittedly unconvincingly, "He...could...be...hiding...anywhere...in...the...palace."

"Yes, indeed. In fact he could even be right...HERE!" Rasputin fired his relicquary at the clock in question, blasting the top off it. A loud cry confirmed the heir's hiding place. Rasputin stormed over and yanked a terrified Alexei out of the remains of the clock. "So, you thought you could hide from me!?" he shouted in the boy's face, "The end is coming right now, and...!"

"Rasputin!" came a terrified shout from the hall, "The tsar!"

"He's here in the...!" a second voice rose up, only to be cut off when the two Khlysts collided in the doorway and spilled to the floor. "Mudrolubov, Manasevich, what is the meaning of...!?" their superior demanded.

"The tsar, he's in the palace!" Manasevich stumbled towards him, "He got past the defense shield somehow; he's got a small army in the basement now; they'll be up here at any minute!"

"He's in the Field Marshal Hall right now; Soloviev's dead!" Mudrolubov related his own tale, "What do we do now!?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe we should just surrender!?" Rasputin said with extreme sarcasm. He slapped his underlings across the face. "You go out fighting to the bitter end, you miserable cowards!" he upbraided them, "Get everyone not taking care of the princesses to corner them and slaughter them all! Get going!"

The two Khlysts rushed out the door. "Oh boy, we were so busy looking for the heir, we forgot to keep track of what was going on outside!" Bartok rued, staring at the relicquary as Rasputin conjured up images of Michael's troops in the wine cellar and then Nicholas carrying Alexandra down the stairs towards the hospital.

"You'd better surrender now!" Alexei told his captor confidently, "My father won't give up until he beats you good!"

"Really? Well, neither do I!" Rasputin snarled in his face, "Allow me to show you how a Khlyst makes war!"

He fired blasts from the relicquary at the drawing room's chandeliers, which transformed into giant, ominous bats. "Seek and destroy!" Rasputin ordered them. With unearthly shrieks, the bats swooped from the ceiling and out the door. Laughing, Rasputin carried Alexei out into the hall and stopped along a staircase with many marble statues along its length. He fired at them as well, and the statues, their eyes now glowing a sinister green, climbed off their pedestals, wielding their weapons. "Seek and destroy!" Rasputin repeated the order for them before they lumbered off to carry out the command. He bustled further down the hall to the armory. Another discharge from the relicquary brought dozens of swords, pistols, axes, maces, and muskets to life. "You think your father's so great and strong!?" Rasputin laughed to a now deeply worried Alexei as the weapons flew over their heads, "Let's see how brave he is when his own house starts fighting against him!"

* * *

"Should be a staircase up out of here soon," Michael murmured to his mother at the front of his remaining detachment, "We should come out at the Malachite Room; from there we can..."

"Quiet," Maria Feodorovna held up her hand, "I thought I just heard...that sounds like Tatiana!"

She grabbed her son's gun and took off running. "Mother, no, wait!" Michael cried after her, but she paid no heed. She swung a hard left into the depths of the wine cellar. Sure enough, about a dozen or so hooded figures could be seen at the end of the hall, and the nearest one to her was carrying a sack. "I said let me out of here!" came what was indeed Tatiana's voice from inside the sack, which was shaking crazily from side to side-so much so, in fact, that it sent the man carrying her veering into the wall. "That does it!" he shouted, tossing the sack to the ground despite the loud cry of its occupant, a move emulated by the other Khlysts holding similar sacks. He dug through his robe for a set of pistols. "Forget the river; shoot them!" he ordered two of the other robed figures, handing them two of the guns. They cocked the guns and aimed them at the three sacks before them. The former empress put on a last ditch burst of speed that she was surprised her old legs could manage and slid to a stop in the doorway just before the Khlysts could pull the triggers. "Throw down your weapons, now!" she ordered them all, pointing the weapon primarily at Bonch-Bruevich, who'd given the order to shoot.

Bonch-Bruevich jumped in surprise and turned. He burst into laughter. "Oh no, it looks like we've been beaten!" he said mockingly. "Am I right, all of you?" he asked the other Khlysts in the room, now all laughing themselves, "We're really scared of an old...!"

"FREEZE!" came Michael's order as he and dozens of his troops joined the dowager in the doorway, their own guns leveled at the evil sorcerers. "..._army!" _Bonch-Bruevich gulped, dropping his gun and throwing his hands in the air. Too shocked at the sudden intrusion to put up much of a fight, most of the rest of the Khlysts abruptly did the same-except for Isidor on the far right, who raised a glowing talisman menacingly. Two troops jumped on top of him as he fired it, and the blast of magic slammed into the ceiling, sending a large chunk of concrete unluckily down on Yusupov's head. The prince stumbled and toppled to the floor. "Up against the wall, all of you!" the dowager ordered the other evil sorcerers, who meekly complied. She tore open Tatiana's sack. "Oh my dear, are you all right!?"

"Grandma, I was so scared!" Tatiana hugged her tearfully. Her grandmother watched the troops rip open the other sacks, revealing Olga and Marie, but not...

"Where is Anastasia!?" she demanded Bonch-Bruevich as he was handcuffed by Michael.

"I have no idea, lady, really," he said evasively.

"I SAID," she seized him by the collar and somehow lifted him off the ground, "WHERE IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER!? OR SHALL I CRUSH YOUR NECK HERE AND NOW!?"

"I swear I don't know!" for all his revolutionary swagger, Bonch-Bruevich proved a coward under duress, "Taking her was Varnava and Pitirim's job, and I don't have a clue where they got to!"

"Marie, did you see your sister at all?" the dowager asked the girl.

"No," a still shaking Marie shook her head, "She wasn't in the room before they shoved me in that sack; I don't know where she got to."

"All right then," Maria Feodornovna suppressed a nervous gulp, "You and your sisters go outside where it's safe; you there, escort them out to safety," she instructed one of the soldiers who wasn't herding the now prisoner Khlysts out of the wine cellar. I'm going to find Anastasia."

"Mother, I really wouldn't advise..." Michael tried to dissuade her.

"I'll be fine, Michael!" she practically barked at him, seeing the stairs out of the basement and rushing up them, "The way I feel right now, no one would dare stand in my path!"

She disappeared from sight. "All right then, out you all go!" Michael turned his attention back to the Khlysts, pushing a reluctant Martemian along. "Felix?" Vladimir shook his friend on the floor, but Yusupov was completely dazed and out of it. "Oh well, you should come through in no time," the count shrugged, "Well, what do you suggest we do now, Dmitry Old-?" he turned around, but Dmitry had run off as well. "Hmm," Vladimir mused, "It must be true then he really cares for her, am I right Felix?" he asked his out-of-it friend, "I just hope the little guy knows what he's doing."

Suddenly an unearthly shriek roared up from the wine cellar. "WATCH OUT!" came the loud cry. "WHOA BOY!" Vladimir exclaimed to see one of Rasputin's giant bats soaring up the corridor. The soldier taking the princesses to safety quickly hustled them back into the servants' quarters and out of harm's way, but the bat swooped down and broke the handcuffs holding the Khlysts prisoners. The sorcerers dove for their weapons again, and, with the bat giving them protection from the air, started firing on Michael's command again-and moreover, even more Khlysts as per Rasputin's orders started showing up in the wine cellar as well and also opened fire. "What a night!" Vladimir, unnoticed by them, rushed for the stairs the dowager had gone up, "Maybe I should have gone on another vacation after all!"

* * *

"Just a little bit further," Nicholas recognized the hospital wing, "We should be able to..."

"DUCK!" Dzunkovsky pushed him and the tsarina down as a pike sailed over their heads, slamming into the wall behind them. "Now who threw...!?" the former gendarme chief was cut off by a gun being fired. "What!?" he gasped, seeing the gun was floating in midair ahead of them with no one near it. He fired back and managed to disable it, sending it clattering broken to the floor, but more guns appeared from around the corner and started firing. "What is this!?" Nicholas protested in shock, pulling his still hypnotized wife behind a sturdy pillar, "Is this...!?"

"I would think so!" Dzunkovsky fired until he ran out of bullets. A solid wall of weapons stood between them and the hospital. "Now what do we do!?" he wondered out loud.

"If we can't get there, we can still warn them," Nicholas dared to stand up and lean around the pillar. "The children!" he shouted as loud as he could towards the hospital, "The Khlyst are after the royal children; if you men can hear me, you're our only hope!"

"Watch out!" Dzunkovsky pulled him back just before a sword slammed into the pillar right where his head would have been. "Your Majesty, is that you!?" came Basil Rodansky's voice from the hospital doorway.

"Yes, yes, it is I!" Nicholas backpedaled as an ominous set of swords and maces zoomed through the air towards their hiding place, "Don't worry about me, whoever you are, rally the other men in there to save my children, and hurry!"

The guns started firing at him again. The tsar rushed for a closet, his wife still in his arms. "Close the door, close the door!" he shouted to Dzunkovsky, who did so. This, however, was far from safe for them, as pistol and musket blasts tore into the door, sending them scrambling for the corners of the closet. The swords and axes started chopping at the heavy wooden frame as well. "Well, it's all in their hands now," Dzunkovsky mumbled nervously, "I just hope they can succeed quickly enough for us."

* * *

Dmitry's heart was pounding faster than a hummingbird's wings as he tore through the servants' tunnels up to the top floor of the palace. Where had they taken her if she hadn't been with her sisters!? Was Rasputin taking special pleasure in destroying her? His heart couldn't take that thought.

He stopped briefly to get track of his bearings. He was apparently in the topmost floor now, near the southeast corner of the palace. By now all of the Khlysts had to know the tsar was in the palace, so they obviously couldn't risk taking her outside at ground level. But would they be up this high with her? He wasn't sure at all.

He came to another doorway into the palace itself. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. He glanced around. No sign of anyone, which was probably to be expected given the tsar's troops were down in the basement, likely attracting the Khlysts there. He stepped out, relieved...

Until the pole was slammed into his chest. "You again!" Artyom smacked him across the face with the flag he'd been entrusted with, "How come the sleeping potion didn't knock you out!? Oh well, at least I'll finish you myself then!"

"You can't do this!" Dmitry protested, groaning as Artyom flung him to the floor and started kicking him mercilessly.

"You cannot stop a historic inevitability!" Artyom taunted him, shoving the flagpole down on Dmitry's throat to suffocate him, "The Revolution is at hand, you bourgeois lackey, and we are the vanguard of the people! The dictatorship of the proletariat will be instituted, and all in our path shall be crushed. Don't worry about your princess, though, because it'll be over for her real soon anyway if not already. Too bad, though; it would have been a thrill to execute her myself, to see the fear in her eyes as she faces the judgment of history and the proletariat, to shoot her again and again and again..."

"DON'T YOU DARE TALK ABOUT HER THAT WAY!" barely even realizing it, Dmitry pushed up with all his strength; amazingly, this sent Artyom flying backwards, where he cracked his head hard off a large vase and crumpled to the floor, out cold. Dmitry took some quick breaths to get his composure back. "For an advanced vanguard of a historical inevitability, Artyom, you're a whole lot weaker than you say," he sneered at his unconscious nemesis, "Oh and by the way," he tore the red flag off its pole, "Before I forget, Artyom, here's what I think of your stupid dictatorship of the proletariat!"

He strode into the nearest drawing room and threw the flag into the flames of the still-burning fireplace, which quickly incinerated it. He nodded in satisfaction...

When suddenly there came a swooshing sound from behind him, and a marble ax blade slammed into the mantle just above his head. He spun and nearly keeled over in shock; what had appeared initially to be a Cossack statue in the corner of the room was alive and glaring at him with ominous green eyes. It raised its ax high again. Dmitry jumped back just as it came swooping down on where he'd been standing and looked around frantically for a servants' door. There was one in fact a few feet away. He dove for it, avoiding yet another slash by the statue, and slipped quickly inside. He breathed in relief-then cried out as the the ax plowed through the door. The Cossack was breaking it down, bent on destroying him. Dmitry started runing away as fast he could. The statue was moving slowly enough that he left it behind rather quickly. Nevertheless, he kept running, hoping to lose it completely...

When the sudden sound of windows being shattered in a room he was passing made him slide to a halt. "This looks good," he heard a voice say, "If we can't get down to the ground floor with the tsar's troops all over the place now, we can still drop her in the river from up here."

Dmitry froze up. He thrust the servants' door open. Two of the hooded figures stood before the now open window, one holding another squirming sack. And he knew it had to be her in there now that the other princesses were accounted for. His blood started boiling that they would dare to treat her like that...

"Maybe if you had trusted the map instead of insisting you knew the way out of here, oh great Varnava, we could have been out the back door with her before the tsar got into the palace," the one holding the sack said in frustration.

"Well, it doesn't really matter where we drown her from, does it Pitirim?" his partner retorted, "As long as the job's done, Rasputin won't care how, and at least from up here the fall can kill her if the water doesn't. Stand back."

He fired his staff out the window. There came a loud cracking of ice breaking in the river below. "That's a big enough hole," he proclaimed, hefting a chain, "Find something heavy we can use to make sure she sinks straight to the bottom."

"Found it," Pitirim blasted a huge bust off its stand and handed it to his colleague. Dmitry knew he had to act fast. Noticing a metal snuffbox on the nearest table, he lunged for it and threw it at Pitirim. It hit him square in the side of the head. "OWWW!" What the...!?" he exclaimed, almost dropping the sack. Dmitry dove for his leg and tried to pull it out from under him. "Who are...get off!" the Khlyst shouted, trying to shake him off.

"Let me!" Varnava shouted. Before Dmitry could do anything, a blast of magic hit him head-on and sent him flying backwards hard into the wall. Suddenly his body was struck with total paralysis, no doubt being related to the strange yellow glow his body seemed to have taken on. "Here's what happens to those who interfere with the Khlyst, kid!" Varnava raised the staff again. And Dmitry knew he couldn't move to get out of the way of this one...

But just as Varnava fired this time, the wall behind Dmitry collapsed. The evil statue had caught up to him and was breaking through. Varnava's spell shattered its non-ax arm into rubble. Enraged, the statue turned towards him and raised its ax menacingly. "Uh oh!" Varnava gulped in fear, "Uh, he did it!" he pointed at Pitirim.

"No, no, don't listen to him!" Pitirim pleaded as the statue lumbered towards him, "It was him, honest!"

But the statue swiped at him with a roar anyway. Panicked, Pitirim dropped Anastasia's sack and ran for the door, but the statue cut him off and forced him backwards towards the window. Faced with a terrible dilemma, Pitirim made a quick decision: he dove out the window into the river much as he had intended the princess to go. The statue dove after him, and seconds later first a splash and then a crash could be heard. Dmitry breathed a sigh of relief...

Until he remembered Varnava was still in the room-and the other Khlyst rushed over to the sack. "Well, that aside, you're still going for a swim, princess," he snickered, chaining the bust to the sack, "If it's any comfort, you'll probably die right away."

He strained to lift the sack over to the window. Frantic, Dmitry tried to get up. The spell was starting to weaken, but it was clear it wouldn't dissipate in time for him to stop Varnava, who just about had the princess to the window. He looked around for anything that could help...

And his gaze fell on the large bookcase next to where he'd fallen. He was starting to get feeling back in his legs, so it would have to do. He planted his feet on the back of the shelf and strained with all his might to topple it in time. "_Please_,_ please, come on!"_he begged it. The bookcase shook in place, but showed no sign of tipping, and Varnava was about to lift her over the windowsill. He strained harder...

When suddenly a strong set of hands started pushing above him. "Need a hand, my young friend?" Vladimir winked down at him.

"Now who's...?" Varnava turned just as Vladimir gave the bookcase enough of a push to send it toppling forward. Varnava had just enough time to let out a loud cry before it crashed down on top of him. Immediately Dmitry felt the paralysis end...

...and not a second too soon, for although Varnava was now incapacitated as well, he'd dropped the sack right on the windowsill, and the bust, after first landing on the windowsill as well and rattling around, fell over outside, its weight immediately starting to pull her over the edge to her doom. With a loud gasp, Dmitry leaped across the room and grabbed the sack just before it went over the edge-but its weight plus that of the bust was still too heavy for him, and he abruptly found himself being pulled over the edge as well. He desperately dug his heels into the windowsill, gulping at the steep drop below to a small pool of water in the ice...water that was almost certainly below zero, cold enough to bring instant death. In a minute, he'd go plummeting down with her...

"Hold on, my boy, I'm coming!" Vladimir finally after what seemed like an eternity to Dmitry came running across the room to his aid. Before he could reach him, however, there came a loud scraping from behind him. "Get away from there!" Varnava threatened, crawling out from under the bookcase and leveling his staff at a now wide-eyed Vladimir, "The judgement of Rasputin on the royal family WILL be...!"

Abruptly a crutch hit him square on the head from behind, making him drop the staff. Another swing of the crutch into his face when he spun around sent him sprawling. "Is that the Princess Anastasia!?" broken leg and all, Ivan Turganov hobbled forward, concerned.

"It most certainly is!" Vladimir finally grabbed hold of Dmitry's legs and started pulling him back up, although the weight of the two children and the giant bust was giving even him trouble. "And I can certainly use a hand if you don't mind!"

"In here!" Turganov shouted out the door. Two additional soldiers from the hospital appeared-they being in apparently better conditions than Turganov. The three of them rushed to the window and seized Vladimir around the waist. Together the four of them finally managed to pull Dmitry and Anastasia back into the room. The soldiers quickly struggled to open the sack, succeeding just as footsteps came rushing up the hall towards the drawing room. "Have you found...!?" Maria Feodorovna's question was immediately answered, for she arrived in the doorway just as the troops pulled her granddaughter from the sack. "Oh my God!" she gasped, diving forward, "Anastasia, what have they done to you!? Say something, please!"

Her face blue from a prolonged lack of oxygen due to the spell, Anastasia tried to pronounce something but proved unable. "Looks like he cursed her too," Feofan had appeared in the doorway and was examining the situation grimly, "The vicious devil; trying something like that on a mere child...!"

"Well tell me how you can stop it; she can't breathe!" the dowager begged him.

"As I told the sovereign, our best bet will be to stop Rasputin," the bishop shook his head, "It's otherwise out of my hands."

"You know, stories about the Khlyst circulated in my village a lot when I was young," Turganov spoke up, looking deathly concerned for the princess's well-being as well, "One of the elders said something along the lines that the Master Khlyst's power comes from the group's main dark relicquary; relieve him of it or destroy it, and all his spells will come to an end."

"Terrific, that means we've got to find one guy in this whole palace with a war going on!" one of the other soldiers grumbled, "He could be anywhere, and we might not even know it!"

But it was at that moment that Dmitry caught sight of a familiar flash of green against the walls in the hall out of the corner of his eye. Rasputin was closer than anyone realized. He took one last look at the princess through the legs of the men surrounding her, gasping desperately for air. He was fully galvanized now; he'd stop Rasputin, he swore, and make sure she never suffered again.

No one noticed him leave the room and storm down the hall towards the continual green flashes, ducking to the side twice as several swords and a pair of muskets zoomed through the air, looking for someone to harm. He could now hear Rasputin laughing as well. Yes, his mind remembered now: along with the flashing lights, there had been a laugh as well the night his family had died...a laugh almost exactly like Rasputin's...

Speaking of Rasputin, he now came striding into sight along the railing of the staircase at the end of the hall, and he was carrying the heir in his arms. "Freeze, you!" came the shouts of more soldiers from the bottom of the stairs, followed by rifles clicking.

"Uh uh uh!" Rasputin held Alexei up right in front of his face, ruining any shot the men below might have had. The rifles clattered to the ground. Rasputin then pulled out the relicquary and fired three times, followed by three ominous thuds. The sorcerer laughed maniacally. "You see!" he taunted Alexei, "Nothing your dear daddy can throw at me will do any good, because I can do that and so much more...like this!"

He zapped the ornamental lights along the staircase, which transformed into giant spiders and skittered along the hallway. Dmitry jumped into an empty side room and held the door shut until the scurrying of multiple legs subsided into the distance. He looked out again. Rasputin was turning the chandeliers into more bats and didn't notice him creeping forward. Alexei, however, did and almost gasped in surprise. Dmitry put his finger to his lips and sneaked up right behind Rasputin. It was at that moment the white bat turned and saw him, but before he could do anything, Dmitry had seized the sorcerer's leg and pushed it out from under him. This time the plan worked and Rasputin toppled flat on his back, releasing Alexei, who unfortunately was then pinned under him and unable to run for it. Dmitry climbed over the Khlyst's chest, desperate to get his hands on the relicquary. As it was, though, Rasputin grabbed it at the same time. "Who do you think you are tangling with me, boy!?" he shouted, trying to pull the magical device out of Dmitry's hands.

"You hurt the princess!" Dmitry snarled at him, pulling as hard as he could in the other direction, wrapping his feet around the relicquary as well for more of a pull, "I won't let you hurt her or anyone else anymore!"

"How touching; the little nobody is in love with the princess!" Rasputin sneered to his bat, "Well my boy, I assure you the two of you will be together very soon-in your graves!" he snarled, twisting the relicquary so the skull's mouth was pointed right at Dmitry, "Because you don't know who you're dealing with here!"

"Maybe I do!" Dmitry glared right in his face, "Have you ever been to Verkhoturye!? To meet the Oldenstein family!?"

He could see it; a look of what very well could have been realization appeared in Rasputin's eyes. "Well, let me just say that all who cross the great Rasputin shall pay the price!" he snarled cryptically, "Say your prayers, boy!"

The relicquary started smoking; he was going to fire it, Dmitry knew. He strained to turn the skull's mouth away from his face, but had only partially done so when the full fledged stream of green magic tore out of the relicquary and plowed into his side. This was still enough to send him flying at full force over the railing and hard into the wall across the staircase...so hard this time that everything went black as he slid to the ground.

But his efforts had been worth enough: because he was still gripping and pulling the relicquary hard with his hands and feet when the spell was discharged, it was pulled backwards with him, snapping loose from its chain. "NO!" Rasputin swiped desperately for it, but it was already out of his reach. It fell to the floor out of Dmitry's hands when he hit the wall and continued rolling down the lower flights of stairs out of sight. "Oh boy, not good, not good at all!" Bartok gulped, watching as the larger bats circling above them abruptly turned back into chandeliers and crashed down dangerously close to them. Moreover, from their vantage point out the windows, the protective bubble over the palace disappeared. Loud cheers rose up from the troops still outside-cheers that got louder and louder as they very clearly started charging towards the now unprotected palace. "Uh, maybe we should find a nice, quiet closet in the attic and live there for a month or two until this all blows over," the bat suggested nervously.

"I've got a better idea: get the relicquary right now!" Rasputin ordered him.

"All right, all right, no need to be so pushy; all you had to do was ask nicely!" Bartok winged over the railing on his quest. "Where do you think you're going!?" Rasputin dove on top of Alexei, who'd been trying to squirm away, "Relicquary or no relicquary, you're staying right here with me as my insurance!"

* * *

Down by the palace hospital, the weapons that were still trying to break into the closet the tsar was hiding in fell to the floor. Nicholas cautiously stuck his head outside. "Is it over?" he asked Dzunkovsky next to him.

"Looks like it, your Majesty," Dzunkovsky flicked at a mace, but it didn't move at all.

"Good," the tsar exhaled deeply, "Go catch up with everyone else wherever they are and help out any way you can."

"Yes sir," Dzunkovsky ran from the closet. There was a low moan from the back. "What happened?" a dazed but now back to normal Alexandra asked, "Where am I?"

"Alix!" the tsar flung his arms around her, "Thank God, I thought you'd...!"

"Nicky, where are we?" she frowned at him, "The last thing I remember was Rasputin..."

"No time to explain," he pulled her upright, "The children are in danger; we've got to act fast!"

* * *

"Hold steady, men!" Michael ordered his remaining troops, but there was panic in his voice. The Khlysts had forced him and his remaining command into the very back of the wine cellar with the help of the giant bat and a living statue of Peter the Great that had come on the scene. The latter advanced forward and raised its sword high over Michael's head...

Then suddenly shuddered and started breaking apart with bursts of green light coming from inside of it. At the same time, the bat turned back into a chandelier and fell to the ground. A few of the startled Khlysts were unable to get out of the way in time. Before the others could do anything, there came loud shouts as scores of soldiers from the hospital poured around the corner and threw themselves of top of the sorcerers, knocking their magical paraphernalia away. "Your Highness," one of them recognized Michael, "You have returned..."

"Indeed I have," Michael glanced out the window and smiled to see the bubble had vanished. "Here," he tossed the newcomers some rope from the wall, "Make sure they can't do anything else here tonight. The rest of my command should be coming in at any point now," he leaped over a now coming-to Yusupov and stared out the nearest window, "Ah, in fact here comes my second wave right now. We should join up with them as soon as possible and finish this."

* * *

And up in the top floor drawing room, Anastasia finally let out a deep gasp of air as the curse was lifted. "Oh my precious Anastasia!" her grandmother pulled her close, "Thank God you're...!"

"Alexei!" she gasped, "He's got him; I've got to help him!"

"We'll take care of it, my lady; you need medical attention," Turganov took her hand.

"Not until I know he's OK!" she suddenly pulled loose and tore into the hall. "Anastasia, no!" the dowager cried after her, "Come back, please!"

* * *

"Got it, sir," Bartok gasped as he flew back up to the top floor landing, the relicquary in his feet, "No visible damage to the contraption."

"Give it here, quick, then!" Rasputin extended his hand commandingly. Suddenly another gun cocked below. "Hold it right there, Rasputin!" Dzunkovsky thundered, aiming his pistol at the sorcerer, "Hands up, right now!"

"You mean like this!?" Rasputin raised his arms-then grabbed the relicquary and fired at Dzunkovsky, who spun around from the impact, crumpled to the floor, and did not get up. Rasputin laughed insanely again. "And now we're back in business," he glowered at Alexei in his other hand, "So now we'll...!"

"There he is!" came another shout. Dozens of troops appeared next to Dzunkovsky's body and aimed at the sorcerer. "I'd say now we'll run like crazy," Bartok suggested, "And I'll tell you what oh boy!" he further exclaimed, staring out the window at several more trucks pulling up in front of the palace through the snow flying outside, "Looks like we've got more party crashers on the way, sir."

"Release the heir now!" one of the soldiers ordered.

"You want him!?" Rasputin again held Alexei in front of his face as a human shield, "Come and get him!"

He fired a sharp blast of energy at the knot of men, sending them scattering, and took off running towards the western end of the palace and the door to the roof, firing more blasts backwards at the troops as they poured up the stairs after him. "Anyone who's not fighting get up to the top floor right now!" the Supreme Khlyst shook the relicquary to show his legions. They however, seemed to be in pickles of their own at the moment. A large knot of Khlysts were now in fact cornered in the White Hall by the incoming troops. "It's no use, Rasputin, there's too many of them!" Laptinskaya, apparently the leader of this cluster, begged him desperately, pressed against the wall while surrounded by the armed imperial soldiers, "What are we supposed to do now!?"

"Go out fighting to the last man, you wretched coward!" Rasputin roared at her. Faced with superior numbers, however, the Khlysts threw down their weapons in defeat instead-except for the crazed Madame Lokhtina, who did as Rasputin had asked and went out firing with her staff until a hail of royal bullets felled her. And elsewhere in the palace, he could see, most of the other Khlysts were losing their own fights with the tsar's troops as well. He growled in frustration; they were incompetents, all of them...

He abruptly bumped into soemone rounding the corner near the stairway to the roof. "Rasputin, my magic, it's gone!" a desperate Simonovich pleaded him, "You've got to help...!"

"I don't have time!" Rasputin threw open the door to the roof, "Is there anyone else with you!?"

"No, I think I'm the last one standing by now," Simonovich admitted, "What do we do now?"

"My suggestion is find a nice quiet hiding place far away from St. Petersburg, then in about a week send the tsar a big cake saying we're really, really sorry about everything, and it was all just a big misunderstanding," Bartok gulped at the sight of the now large number of imperial troops charging up the hall towards them.

"I'm getting out of here," Rasputin started up the stairs to the roof with Alexei, "Hold them off, Aron Ivonovich."

"But I need my magic...!"

"I said I don't have time; just stop them any way you can!" the Supreme Khlyst told him off, disappearing from sight. Simonovich gulped himself at the shouting masses heading straight at him, and could only manage to hold up his hand and mutter a hesitant, "Stop!" The troops piled on top of him. "He went that way!" one of them pointed up to the roof. Those not handling Simonovich poured up after Rasputin. "Hold it right there!" the lead troop, none other than Basil Rodansky, shouted, bursting out into the snowstorm.

"You stand where you are!" Rasputin threatened, lifting Alexei off the ground and holding the relicquary right to his head.

"DON'T SHOOT, DON'T SHOOT!" came Nicholas's scream to his men as he pushed his way through them to come face to face with his treacherous advisor. "So, it's true then," he said bitterly, an expression of pure betrayal on his face, "Everything they've said about you is true...you are a Khlyst..."

"You wretched Romanov swine!" Rasputin snarled at him, taking large steps backwards away from the tsar, "Did you honestly think you could destroy the Khlyst for good!? We live as immortal as time itself, and tonight I'm taking back what's rightfully mine-and if I can't, I'll make sure you pay a hefty price, Nikolasha!"

The relicquary started smoking against Alexei's temple. "Leave him alone!" Alexandra skidded next to her husband, also looking heartbroken and betrayed that Rasputin was not the savior she'd thought he was, "If it's us you want to see dead, take us and let him live!"

"Only if I know I'm getting something I want in return!" was Rasputin's ultimatum, "So what price shall it be for your son, Nikolasha!?" he demanded to the tsar, "And I won't wait all night for an answer before I decide your precious heir's lived long enough...!"

"All right," Nicholas lowered his head, looking guilt-stricken, "You win. You can have what you want; just please let me have my son back!"

"Nicky, you can't!" his wife begged him, visibly horrified at the prospect of what he was suggesting, "Think of the people; if he really is a Khlyst, he'll turn Russia into a land of torture and genocide if he takes over! They'll never...!"

"I've promised the children I'd never let anything happen to them," the tsar shook his head sadly, "That promise above all else I have to keep. I'd rather be the best father than the best ruler..."

"So you thus swear to give me the country!?" Rasputin grilled him impatiently, "Swear it to me, Nikolasha, and give it to me now, and no tricks or else!" he pressed the relicquary even more tightly against a whimpering Alexei's forehead to press his point.

"I swear with all my heart and soul," his hand shaking, Nicholas pulled the Golden Orb, that most important of imperial attributes, from a fold in his coat, gave it a grim look, and tossed it right into the sorcerer's hand with an audible sob. Rasputin's eyes went wild with exhilaration. "It's all mine!" he laughed insanely, releasing Alexei to loft the Orb high, "After thirty years, it's finally all mine!"

"All OURS," Bartok corrected him. His boss paid no heed. "You have done well, Nikolasha," he informed the tsar, opening his arms to welcome his son back, "So that leaves just one thing left for me to say to you."

"What?"

"NEVER TRUST A KHLYST!" he unexpectedly fired a wave of green energy from the relicquary that seized Alexei around the waist inches from his father and yanked him backwards through the air. "What are you doing!?" Nicholas gasped, horrified.

"Finishing what I started tonight; exacting my pound of flesh!" Rasputin blasted a wall of fire nearly twenty feet high between himself and the royal couple to keep them away when they frantically rushed forward to save their son. He then flung Alexei roughly to the roof, jammed a foot down on his chest to hold him still, and started zapping him with the relicquary again. "You can't do this!" Nicholas cried on the other side of the flames, "We had a deal!"

"You killed my master, Nikolasha!" the sorcerer yelled back at him, "A die for a die!"

"Stop it, I beg you!" Alexandra screamed, right up against the flames, "He's only a boy!"

"He's a Romanov!" Rasputin snarled coldly, "And all Romanovs will suffer for their crimes against the Khlyst under my rule! Are you enjoying it, Alexei Nikolaevich!?" he laughingly taunted the boy, now screaming in agony from the spell and starting to bleed uncontrollably, "I would hope so, because I'm going to enjoy every minute of your demise!"

* * *

Anastasia could hear her brother's screams as she raced down the hall. They seemed to be directly overhead now. She lurched to a stop. Sure enough, the green flashing could be seen outside the nearest window. Time was of the essence. She rushed into the nearest parlor and threw open the window. A drainpipe was nearby-and below a steep, vertigo-inducing drop. But she had to chance it, for Alexei's sake.

"_Don't be afraid, don't be afraid_," she told herself again, grabbing for the drainpipe and inching her way up as fast as she could. She almost slipped near the top, but managed to regain her hold in time. There was Rasputin right in front of her as she crested the edge of the roof. And Alexei's blood was flowing in rivers; he probably didn't have too much longer. Rasputin was too caught up in enacting his curse to notice her-but the bat abruptly did. "Sir!" he tugged the sorcerer's robes.

"Not now, Bartok," Rasputin brushed him off, his gaze still firmly on Alexei, "I want to enjoy this!"

"But Sir...!"

"I SAID BE QUIET YOU...!" he started to roar. Before he could finish, though, Anastasia dove for his leg and sank her teeth into it. Rasputin howled in pain and released Alexei. She also bit his arm when it came low enough, making him drop the relicquary, and kicked it as far away as she could. "Alexei, run!" she pushed him forward as the flames started dying. Abruptly she slipped on a patch of ice and toppled forward, but managed to give her brother one last shove that gave him enough force to make it to his father's arms. Before she could get up and join him, however, another wall of fire came between her and they. "I am getting very, very fed up with you, Anastasia Nikolaevna!" Rasputin bellowed in carnal rage, his eyes burning murderously as he stormed towards her, the retrieved relicquary held high, "You want to be a hero!? I'll show you what happens to heroes who dare to cross the new and permanent ruler of Russia: ME!"

He fired a blast of dark energy straight at her. She barely avoided it and tried to run away from him. Rasputin fired the relicquary along the edges of the roof until the two of them were completely surrounded by the giant flames. She had nowhere left to run. "Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, don't be afraid!" she whimpered out loud, feeling quite afraid in fact.

"On the contrary!" a furious Rasputin advanced towards her, "Be afraid. Be very, very, VERY afraid!"

He started firing at her again. She avoided each spell as best she could manage in the confined area, but one finally nicked her in the side and sent her tumbling the roof. Rasputin's foot came down on her chest. "I should have done this to you from the start, you little wretch!" he roared at her, "Better late than never, though!"

He held the relicquary up, and a small opening appeared in the wall of fire. "See for yourself, Nikolasha!" he shouted to her horrified family, "I may not leave here with the blood of your precious heir, but I'll take a fine consolation prize. Say your prayers, Anastasia!" he bellowed at her under his foot. He raised the smoking relicquary high...


	14. The Doomsday Plan

...but suddenly jerked about as a quartet of shots rang out. With a loud groan, he toppled sideways and landed in a heap, the relicquary rolling from his fingers. The flames immediately died down. Anastasia desperately crawled over to her father's open arms. "Oh thank God!" he breathed a tremendous sigh of relief through tears of joy, embracing her hard, "I thought I'd lost you, my dear! Did he hurt you!?"

"No, but I'm sorry I was afraid!" she whimpered through her own tears, "I know you said not to be scared...!"

"Don't be sad about that; anyone would be scared facing down that," the tsar gestured at Rasputin's now motionless body, "You were so brave anyway; you saved Alexei's life, and for that I can't thank you enough, my precious little Anastasia. Now who shot...?"

He turned back. Behind him, Yusupov was holding his now smoking pistol towards where Rasputin had been standing. "Felix," he shook the prince's hand firmly, "That was excellent shooting; it looks like you've finished him, and just in time."

"All in a day's work, your Majesty," Yusupov said confidently, pocketing the gun. "Well," he picked up the Golden Orb where it had fallen and handed it back to the tsar, then strode confidently towards the fallen Rasputin, "So ends the career of the nefarious Rasputin. For all the bravado and the dark magic power, he went down with barely a..."

Suddenly Rasputin's eyes flew wide open. With an unnatural roar, he rose up and started strangling the prince. "FELIX FELIXOVICH!" he snarled right in his shooter's face, "YOU DARE THINK YOU CAN STOP THE GREAT RASPUTIN!?"

"SHOOT HIM, SHOOT HIM!" a terrified Yusupov screamed to the other soldiers, who did so, but shockingly, the bullets seemed to have no effect. "FOOLS!" Rasputin roared, "DID YOU THINK I'D LET BULLETS STOP ME AFTER YOU SHOT MY MASTER TO DEATH!?"

He seized hold of the relicquary. "LOOK OUT!" Nicholas seized his children and smothered them just as the sharp green blast zoomed in his direction, smashing the shingles right where he would have been standing. "I shall return, Nikolasha!" Rasputin bellowed at him, seizing Bartok in his free hand, "And when I do, your blood and your entire family's blood shall flow in rivers!"

Flames leaped from the bottom of the relicquary as he rocketed high into the sky, laughing maniacally at the top of his lungs as he flew out of sight. "Send out the word, I want a full-on dragnet for him!" Nicholas ordered the soldiers with him, "Let no one with the police and army rest until he's in our custody! And take the rest of the Khlysts to the Fortress immediately!"

He held up his hand at Rodanko, making him stay while the others ran off. "My God!" Alexandra glanced numbly at the sky, "To think I put my trust in him...knowing he's done all this...what he almost did...!"

"It's over now, Alix; he can't escape a country-wide search," her husband put an arm around her, "I'm just glad to have you back to normal again."

"Normal?"

"He had you under some kind of spell, Mama," Anastasia told her, hugging her as well, "He made you hit me; I knew you'd never willingly..."

"He did what!?" the tsarina went pale, "Oh my God...what else did he make me do!? Really, I don't know much about the last few months...!"

"Whatever he did, we'll reverse it as soon as possible, my dear," Nicholas gave her a kiss, "And don't listen to anyone who calls for your head, because you are the woman I love with all my heart, and nothing can change that."

There came the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. "Anastasia!" came the dowager's terrified cry. She breathed a huge sigh of relief to see the girl largely unharmed. "Don't EVER scare me like that again!" she cried, sweeping her into an embrace, "If we'd lost you..."

"We'd've lost Alexei if it wasn't for her," her son finished the statement for her. "Are you OK, my boy?" he hugged his son again.

"I am now, Papa," Alexei nodded; indeed, the blood was starting to vanish again now that he was out of the relicquary's control, "I'm just so glad you finally came back."

"So am I, and thank you so much for making that call, Mother," he hugged her next. "And to you, and all the other men who heeded my call for help," he turned to Rodanko, grateful, "well, words can never express my gratitude. Tell the others back in the hospital that survived that they can expect a hefty reward from me for their services, yourself very much included."

"It was an honor, your Majesty," Rodanko bowed humbly, "After all, such kind-hearted children as these," he gestured at Anastasia and Alexei, "deserve to be saved if needed."

"Indeed," Alexandra told him, grateful herself. "And now that this is finally over," she hefted her children and started carrying them towards the stairs, "Let's go out and find your sisters; I'm sure they're worried stiff by now about the two of you."

"Indeed; we'd better make sure they're OK as well. Felix," the tsar waved the still shaken prince over, "Tell me exactly how this unfolded."

* * *

"Dmitry Oldenstein, are you in there!? Dmitry Oldenstein, come on, it's your old friend Count Vladimir here!"

Dmitry's eyes slowly fluttered open. Vladimir was leaning over him, frowning. "Is it over?" the boy asked him, "Is he...is she...!?"

"He got away; she's all right," Vladimir told him, "I was wondering where you'd gotten to after...now where are you going?"

Dmitry could hear the distant sound of the tsar's voice on the landing above him. He knew that a handsome reward awaited him once the tsar knew it had been he that sounded the alarm that had stopped Rasputin. And then he could finally leave the kitchen behind...and there'd be no way she wouldn't be impressed enough to want to be with him and him alone...

He paused at the topmost step, waiting for the sovereign to come by. Then he heard another voice-Yusupov's. "...out looking for Vladimir," the prince was saying, "I stopped to look in an alley, and I heard Rasputin laying out the plan to the other Khlysts. So I ran for the nearest phone and called for everyone I could find. And then, as luck would have it, I remembered about the servant's entrance just in time and let you know about it before the worst could happen to your children."

"Well I commend you from the bottom of my heart, Felix," Nicholas said warmly, "You can expect a rich payment for my gratitude and an elevation in title. I'll make this public at the tricentennial celebration. Now I'd like to go check on the rest of my daughters; you can go on home now, Felix."

Dmitry's heart crashed. How could the prince do that to him!? He lunged out, but the tsar had already walked out of sight. "It was me!" he cried to Yusupov, "You KNOW it was me who...!"

"Yeah, but who do you think his Majesty's going to believe!?" Yusupov told him haughtily, "Now why don't you run on back to the kitchens where you belong!?"

He skipped off merrily, whistling. Dmitry completely lost control. He found himself rushing blindly down the halls, through the servants' doors, back to the sleeping quarters, where the rest of the underage staff was still sleeping soundly. He threw himself onto his bunk and broke down. It wasn't fair; it just wasn't fair at all. Every time it looked like he had a chance to win her heart, it was coldly snatched away from him, and all because no one saw him as anything but a lowly servant...

"Why are you crying, my son?" came Feofan's concerned voice from the doorway, "As I see it you have little to be sad about."

"It was all for nothing!" Dmitry sobbed, "He got away, I know he'll be back, and she'll never...!"

"For nothing?" the bishop walked towards him, "If it hadn't been for you, Dmitry Oldenstein, the entire royal family would be dead, the Princess Anastasia included, and we'd all be suffering under the thumb of Khlyst tyranny."

"But she won't know it!" the boy wailed, "Prince Yusupov took all the credit! He's just like the rest of them, treating me like trash because I'm a servant!" his fists clenched and a determined look crossed his face. "But some day I'll show them all. Somehow, some day, I'm going to be the richest man in Russia. And then they'll never treat me as disposable again."

"Tell me, why is it so important that you get a material reward for such a good deed?" Feofan posed to him, "Isn't knowing the breadth of what you managed to accomplish reward enough?"

Dmitry shook his head firmly. "I see," Feofan mused, "I fear, then, you may be setting your heart in the wrong place, Dmitry Oldenstein. A word of caution, my son," he leaned right down into Dmitry's face, frowning, "He who makes accumulating money the prime aim of his life shall in the end only hurt those he cares for. I've seen it happen every time. Remember my words, child. You have shown yourself to be good of heart this evening; if you squander that for the purpose of amassing earthly riches, then one day you may very well lose for good that which you and I know you desire the most."

"How, if she won't even know I exist!?" Dmitry countered. "But like I said, what difference does it make!?" he rued sadly, "Rasputin'll be back, and he won't stop until he kills her and the whole royal family! If only someone had killed him tonight...!"

"Well, sadly, if the devil didn't win sometimes, he wouldn't be the terrible foe he is," the bishop conceded, "And unfortunately, that may just happen, horrible as it is to contemplate. But if you weren't attentive enough to hear of his plot, he would have triumphed sooner. You should be proud of that, even if he does win in the end. A good deed is never an empty one. And besides, even if it manages a terrible victory every now and then, evil cannot win for good. Eventually, good men will say that enough is enough, and evil will be vanquished when they so something about it."

There came the sound of more footsteps from the doorway. "A good deed's never empty, huh?" rued Vladimir. "Don't feel bad, my boy," he told Dmitry, "Felix gave me the brush-off too. Gave me this for my troubles," he held up a bag, "Five thousand rubles that he calls my share of the reward. Hush money to keep me quiet so he gets all the credit is more like it, I say."

He sighed in frustration. "But, I always say, never let free money go to waste," he remarked, "So, might as well make good use of it for another trip-my own little victory tour, you might say."

"Where are you going?" Dmitry brightened up a little bit.

"Africa-or at least part of Africa where one of the war's sideshows isn't raging," Vladimir told him, "Ethopia, I think; I always did want to go big game hunting. I can catch a train to India and then a boat to Ethiopia. Shame I'd have to miss the three hundredth anniversary festivities, but this is a lifelong passion, so might as well do it while I'm still young. Which is why I came, my young friend; you're more than welcome to come along with me, regardless of what Mr. Loudmouth says."

"I, I really appreciate that, Mr. Vlad," Dmitry was impressed at the offer, "But actually, I think I'll stay here this time...if Rasputin does come back, I...I'd just like to make sure he doesn't hurt her again."

"Oh I understand," Vladimir accepted this, "But once you come of full age, my friend, you're more than welcome to be my full partner in whatever enterprise I undertake from then on; you're definitely more trustworthy than Mikhail was, and I think the two of us together can amass a fortune that would make most of the aristocracy very, very jealous."

"Count Vladimir, I am trying to drive into this boy's head the folly of a life of material wealth," Feofan reprimanded him, "I will not let you undermine my arguments."

"I always did think you were too uptight, Bishop," Vladimir shrugged. "But before I forget," he dug a fistful of rubles out of his bag and tossed them in Dmitry's direction, "Your fair share, partner. Keep them away from Mr. Loudmouth and get your princess something good for the celebration. Till we meet again, Dmitry Oldenstein."

He saluted the boy as he left. "Enjoy your trip, Mr. Vlad," Dmitry waved him farewell. "It's no wonder they ostracize him," Feofan muttered under his breath, "At least his heart IS mostly in the right place, his insatiable quest for money aside..."

He turned back to Dmitry. "You don't need money to impress the princess, trust me on that," he told him in parting, "The only thing keeping you apart is your antiquated view of class structure. All you need to do is go up to her and tell her the truth that it was you that saved her life tonight, and she'll accept you with no questions asked. Chasing money will make you far less honest than you should be, and that can never come to any good. Remember this always, I pray to you." Then he smiled. "And thank you again for all you've done. I won't forget, and neither will our shared God. Good luck, my son, and stray not from the path you've taken this evening If you don't, then you and the princess are meant for each other regardless of what anyone may say."

He walked out the door. Dmitry lay his head on his pillow and mulled over everything he'd been told. Was the bishop right in that the Princess Anastasia would take his word for everything that had happened at face value if he walked right up and told her that, and how he felt about her? Part of him was saying she would; she had too sunny a personality not to. Then again, he couldn't dismiss the image of her laughing him off; his heart couldn't take that if it happened.

_"Well, I'll try,"_ he reasoned with himself, "_During the tricentennial ball, I'll give it a try when she's reasonably alone. I just hope he's right. Still, it couldn't hurt to be rich some day either. There's nothing that says for sure I'd get corrupted like everyone else he's seen. Maybe I'll turn out differently..." _

* * *

ONE MONTH LATER...

"This one'll be a seven for sure," Marie theorized.

"He hardly even got the chance to do anything before Rasputin's scheme collapsed; I don't think it'll be as high as a seven," Tatiana countered.

"But he would have unleashed the police against the people to ensure they wouldn't rise up; that's at least a seven maybe more," was Olga's assessment. "Want to get a better view?" she asked Alexei gently.

"It would be nice," he nodded. His oldest sister lifted him up onto her shoulders. In front of them, Anastasia cracked a smile. Olga had been so much nicer to Alexei ever since their near-death experience, probably since she now respected how well he'd largely kept his composure in taking the brunt of Rasputin's malice without cracking, scared though he'd understandably been. And besides, she reasoned, coming close to death herself had probably made Olga see things differently about life anyway.

She turned her gaze back through the curtains in the back of the throne room. Over the course of the last month, Rasputin's henchmen and puppets had been brought forth one at a time to face the tsar's judgment; as such, the five of them had long since taken to watching the preceedings under cover and betting, on a scale of one to ten, how furious their father would be with each of them. Not surprisingly, those who'd actually tried to kill his children seemed to be getting the largest force of his wrath; most of them were going to rot away the rest of their lives in solitary confinement in the Peter & Paul Fortress, or suffer hard labor in Siberia until the day they died. A few had struck deals to name names of other Khlysts that hadn't participated in the attack on the palace for lesser sentences, although they'd been too frightened of reprisal from Rasputin to give any hints as to where he may have fled to. With most of the Khlysts now taken care of, the officials who'd sold out to Rasputin were now getting their due, and it was once-again ex-Department of Police Chief Beletsky that was dragged into the throne room in shackles next. "Stepan Beletsky, it has been proven you agreed to serve the traitor Rasputin in exchange for your former post back," Nicholas glared him down furiously, "Have you anything to say for yourself!?"

Guilty, Beletsky lowered his head and said nothing. "Very well; it is my decision that you be exiled to Siberia for the next forty years, with ten years of hard labor for attempted treason against the Russian state," was Nicholas's judgment, "Remove him," he ordered the guards, "Bring in the prince next."

"He'll be at least a nine," Marie smiled knowingly.

"Only a nine!? You've got to be kidding; he rates a full ten; he was going to take Father's place if Rasputin's plan had worked," Olga countered.

"In that case, is it possible he could be higher than a ten?" Alexei inquired, making his sisters chuckle. They all watched a shaking Andronikov, also shackled, be dragged into the throne room next. "I swear it's not my fault, your Majesty!" he pathetically begged the tsar, "Rasputin hypnotized me to do it! And he favored Count Vladimir to really...!"

"Silence!" Alexandra glared him down, furious herself, "We have investigated your claims, and it is clear Count Vladimir is entirely in the clear with this whole affair. You, on the other hand, are guilty as sin, Andronikov; you willfully sold out our entire family to further your own career! For that crime, the sovereign and I shall have you punished as severely as possible!"

"Indeed," a very livid Nicholas rose to his feet, "For your crimes against us, Mikhail Andronikov, you are hereby stripped of all your titles and privledges..." he reached down and personally ripped off Andronikov's epaulets and medals, "...are disowned from the Romanov family, and banished from Russia till the end of your days."

"No, please, anything but that!" Andronikov started bawling like a baby, "I beg you, please, don't...!"

"My children begged the people you sold out to not to try and kill them, and they didn't listen to them, so we shall show you the same!" the tsarina fumed. "Get him out of our sight!" she ordered the guards, who strained to drag a still squirming and sobbing Andronikov away.

"Well, he's really taking that well," remarked a woman's voice from behind the children. "Papa says that's how cowards always take being exposed, Aunt Natalia," Alexei smiled at the attractive woman his uncle had fallen for, "I guess you'll be next, right?"

"I suppose so, Alexei," Michael appeared at her side and glanced out towards his brother, who gave him a nod, "Although she's not actually your aunt just yet; once your father takes care of a few things in a minute or two, though, we should be able to be married very soon."

"Good, because we've always wanted cousins," Anastasia told her future aunt, "Not to pressure you or anything..."

"Oh no, on the contrary, I've always wanted children; unfortunately with an arranged marriage that was out of my hands to a man not interested in them, it's taken longer than I've hoped," Natalia admitted, "But yes, I'm sure some will come eventually if everything works out; I've been thinking George if it's a boy, and..."

"I'm ready if you are," Nicholas called to her. Natalia took a deep breath and walked over to the thrones. "Send him in," the tsar called to the footmen, who opened the throne room door. An eager Colonel Wulfert all but bounded in. "Ah, so you finally found my wife," he told the sovereign, not giving him the pleasure of a bow, "Took you long enough, I must say. Tell me you've punished the grand duke for his thieving ways!?"

"No, and I don't think that will be in the cards, Colonel. In fact, your wife will not be going home with you, because from this point forward, she is no longer your wife," Nicholas rose up again, scowling, "I know the truth of how you mistreated her now, and the fact that you would dare to lie to me, tsar of all Russia, to slander the grand duke out of petty revenge says all I need to know about your character, Colonel. Therefore, I will not deliver this woman back to you to be abused any further."

"You can't do this!" Wulfert was livid himself, "You promised me...!"

"I promised you nothing, you lying lowlife!" Nicholas thundered, "Therefore, as titular head of the Russian church, I hereby declare your marriage to Natalia Sergeyevna dissolved, and you are henceforth to stay away from her under penalty of expulsion to Siberia and hard labor for life. Now leave this palace."

"You put him up to it, didn't you!?" Wulfert roared furiously at his now ex-wife, "This is all your fault as usual! When I get my hands on you next time...!"

"If you do, you'll go straight to the gallows," Michael walked out and put an arm around his fiance, "Now you heard the tsar; get out."

Wulfert sputtered in rage as the footmen took him by the arms and led him away. "You haven't heard the last of me!" he shouted back at the happy couple, "I'll join the revolutionaries if I have to, but I'll get back at you, all of you, one way or...!"

The doors were slammed shut, silencing him. The tsar turned knowing to the curtains. "You think I did good?" he asked with a grin.

"Really good, Father, both with him and everyone," Olga said, leading the others out.

"But there's still one thing you can do, if you can do it," Alexei climbed up onto his father's lap, "If you can get the Germans to agree to stop fighting, I think that would be better for everyone. Too many people have been separated and hurt after all this time; it shouldn't have to go on much longer than this. I know you promised the Allies you'd keep fighting and everything, but..."

"He does have a point, Nicholas," Michael nodded in agreement, "Having been on the front lines the last two years, I can tell you with absolute certainty the troops are getting restless; they don't see a point in continuing the conflict, and given that neither we nor the Central Powers have anything really worthwhile to gain from this point forward..."

"Well, tell you all what, right after we finish with the three hundredth anniversary festivities, I'll call King George and President Poincaire and see if they'd be willing to at least consider approaching old Wilhelm with a proposal about winding this all down," Nicholas told his family, "I can't guarantee you all that anything will come of it in the end-both they and Wilhelm are still pretty bent on fighting on to the bitter end, and I don't know what might convince them otherwise..."

"Maybe if we have everyone on the front lines celebrate Christmas openly this year, that'll make the Germans stop fighting for a little while," Tatiana proposed, "I've heard that's what happened two Christmases ago in France."

"That's my girl, away thinking of the ingenious way," her father rubbed her hair, "Well, maybe we could see if they'd be willing to try that. But right now," he paused to hear the grandfather clocks in the hall ringing the hour, "we're not going to worry about the war. In fact, all of you better start getting ready, because we'll be formally celebrating three hundred years of Romanov rule in a few hours with the biggest party we've ever had-not to mention announcing a special engagement," he winked at his brother and his fiance, "So all of you go get ready; we want to look good when everyone else shows up."

He smiled warmly at his wife and gave her a deep, passionate kiss before she and the rest of his family bustled off to get ready for the celebration. One figure, however, hung behind. "So what's bothering you this time, Anastasia?" he asked her, mildly concerned.

"Well, it's just...I wish Grandmama didn't have to go to Paris," she confessed, leaning against her mother's throne, "When you were away at the front, she was there to comfort me when I needed it. It's just a little hard to get used to her not being here, even if it's only for a few months. And if something goes wrong on the Western Front and the Germans start moving towards Paris..."

"Your grandmother will be just fine; if she could stand up to the Khlysts like she did with your sisters, a Central Powers attack is nothing, my dear," Nicholas assured her, a strange smile on his face that the girl couldn't quite figure out. "And she'll be back home before you know it, so I wouldn't worry too much about her. Besides, you shouldn't feel sad; after all, you've got that new dog coming right after Christmas. Have you figured out a name yet?"

"Well," Anastasia thought hard, "I always did like the name Pooka; it just sounds right."

"Pooka it'll be then. Anything else? You still look a little worried."

"Oh, it's just...when we do catch Rasputin, we are going to make him take his curse off Alexei before we throw him in jail for the rest of his life, aren't we? I'd hate for him to have to live the rest of his life like that if Rasputin refuses."

"Oh believe me, he'll take that curse off if I have to put a pistol to his head, don't you worry about that. That's why I hope we can take him alive. But right now, I wouldn't worry about anything if I were you," he scooped her up and "flew" her around again, "After all, for helping to save your brother from him, you're going to be the star of our celebration tonight, so why don't we get you ready for it? In the years to come, you'll be able to tell your kids how great our three hundredth anniversary was; who knows, maybe if fate's in your favor, you'll live to see our four hundredth anniversary some day too."

* * *

"Will this be to your liking, Madame?" the curio shop owner asked the dowager, setting a music box before her. He turned a crank, and a pair of bears skated across an icy pond to the music.

"I specifically want something that plays 'Once Upon a December,'" Maria Feodorovna told him.

"Well, I'm not sure if we have that, but I'll take a good hard look," the merchant trudged into the back room. "I'll say again that I don't think what you have in mind is that good an idea, your Highness," her chief butler spoke up next to her.

"And why not, Andrei? Nicholas and I agree that Anastasia deserves a reward for saving Alexei," she argued, "His is the dog he's going to buy her, and this will be mine."

"But to take her into an active war zone..."

"President Poincaire's offer of safe passage is still in place," she reminded him, "I'll go first to make absolutely sure it's safe, then a few weeks later send for her. The Central Powers will know nothing; this is highly top secret."

"And the tsar does approve of this?"

"It took some convincing, but he was swayed knowing she's always wanted to see Paris, and he trusts me wholly now," she said with a satisfied smile, "And it'll just be for a couple months; if the Western Front changes for the worst, we can always flee into Spain or Portugal and catch a boat to India and come back into Russia that way; there are no U-boats operating in the Indian Ocean the last time I checked."

"Here you are, Madame, just as you requested; the last one I had in stock," the store owner came back clutching a rather well-crafted and colorful music box. The dowager turned it on, and indeed it did play "Once Upon a December" as two noble figures danced. "This will do just fine," she nodded, "Before I buy it, though, I'd like you to engrave on it the words, "Together in Paris."

"As you request," the owner took the box back into the back room. "You see, Andrei, this box will keep her happy knowing I'm still thinking about her until I give the OK for her to come to Paris," she told the butler, "Our favorite song always perks her up when she's down. And we'll have a wonderful time together in Paris, war or no war; Sophie's been eager to meet her ever since she was born."

"All done," the owner came back rather quickly with the now engraved music box.

"I thank you most deeply, kind sir," Maria Feodorovna handed him the money for the box as the clocks in the shop struck the hour. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I almost forgot what time it was. I've got to get back to Anichkov and get dressed for the celebration. Here, Andrei," she handed him the now wrapped music box, "Don't break this; this music box is of the utmost importance." She breathed a deep sigh of relief as they stepped out into the snowy December evening. All seemed right with the world again, at least for the immediate moment. "For a while, Andrei, I wasn't sure we'd make it to the tricentennial," she confided with him as they climbed into her carriage, "But it looks like this will be a memorable celebration after all. And," she snorted firmly at one of many wanted posters for Rasputin that over the last month had been strung all over the capital, "With a fifty million ruble price on his head, _HE_ wouldn't dare show up and try anything..."

* * *

"Sir," Bartok peered through the keyhole into Rasputin's innermost sanctum in the citadel, "You sure you don't want to eat anything? It has been about a week now, you know."

Only the rustling of book pages and a low murmuring of "Filthy Romanov dog...!" came as an answer. "OK, have it your way," the bat shrugged, fluttering up to the overhead light. Rasputin had, after disabling the magical passage from his now ex-office in St. Petersburg so the authorities couldn't use it to hunt him down, largely barricaded himself in the inner sanctum since they'd fled back to Ipatiev Mountain following their failed takeover attempt, searching through the old Khlyst spell books for something, although he hadn't let his sidekick in on whatever it was. Due to the massive Khlyst dragnet now in effect, the relicquary, sitting idly on the spell book stand, kept flashing images of Khlysts being captured all over the country (Rasputin ha,d in a rage, sworn to disavow them all, that he didn't want their help and could take over the country himself from now on); one of the few that had made it to Ipatiev Mountain had been carrying a communique from a furious Lenin, who lambasted the Khlysts for their "bungling shortcomings" and other choice phrases, and declared he could start the revolution without their help after all. So for everything they'd accomplished in the last few years, he and Rasputin were now for all intents and purposes right back at square one.

Abruptly, though, there came a laugh from inside the inner sanctum. It slowly grew louder and louder till it reached a level of pure insanity. "What, what, you've got something?" Bartok flew back to the keyhole, "What's...?"

The door flew open unexpectedly, slamming the bat into the wall. "This is it!" ecstasy shaded Rasputin's face as he strode out, holding one particular spell book high, "This is exactly what we've...!"

He looked around for his sidekick. The door swung shut again, sending a thoroughly dazed Bartok reeling to the floor. "Ah, there you are," Rasputin picked him up and held him in front of the book, "This will solve all our problems right here!"

He pointed at one particular passage written in an old form of Cyrillic. Bartok squinted at the drawing underneath, of a group of shrieking green winged demons with soulless yellow eyes. "What about them, sir?" he asked, "We're going to find these little guys and tell them to destroy the tsar...?"

"My own private army!" Rasputin crowed, "They'll obey orders without question and can do the job more effectively than a human can! But what they can do best of all," he pulled the bat close to his face, "They can take over the minds of the stupid people once I enact the Curse of Total Death as prescribed in here. With the curse in effect, the people will become bent on destroying the tsar and his entire family-especially after my minions destroy everything edible in the entire country to make them as angry as possible-and they won't stop hunting for them until every single solitary Romanov is dead! Why risk my own neck when they can do the dirty work for me!?"

"Hmm," Bartok squirmed out and stared at the old writing, "Now let's see, if my Uncle Amadeus taught me old Cyrillic right, this would mean...uh, sir, are you sure you want to take this trail?" he asked with a frown, "If I'm reading this right, this is pretty industrial strength evil stuff they're talking about in here; to get these little guys, you're going to have to sell your soul to the Dark Forces; is that really what...?"

"WHATEVER IT TAKES!" Rasputin roared in the bat's face. He collected himself and repeated somewhat more calmly, "Whatever I have to do to ensure the death of each and every Romanov, Bartok, so be it! And if you'll read the fine print," he shoved his colleague right into the book, "You notice that by making this large a bargain, I will gain incredible powers when the curse is fulfilled in full! I'll be completely impervious to death in any form, and I'll take on powers that no mortal has yet obtained! And once all the Romanovs have perished, and Russia is entirely mine, I think I'll take up Josef Whatever His Last Name's Going to Be's advice and go for the rest of Europe; what's there to stand in my way if I can't be stopped...and then from Europe, yes, I dare dream it...the entire world! All of humanity under the Khlysts' rule; Makary was a fool never to dream that big...!"

"Um, there seems to be more fine print here," Bartok squinted at the text, "Sir, it looks like your very existence will become dependent on your thingamajig; if it breaks..."

But Rasputin wasn't listening anymore. "The time is now to strike the fatal blow!" he almost sang, seizing the relicquary, out of which an image of all the Romanovs traveling to the Winter Palace for the tricentennial celebration emerged, "For the curse to work, you need to declare it directly to the person you intend to curse, and conveniently all the Romanovs will be there tonight! So let us go join them, my little friend," he seized Bartok in his palm and carried him up the stairs to the citadel's roof, "Since Nikolasha crashed my party last month, I am within my rights to crash his!"

He threw open the door to the roof. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy seeing the looks of terror on their faces when the people come after them screaming for their blood!" he gloated, pulling his hood up, "But most of all, I'll take pleasure in personally watching the demise of that wretched Anastasia; I want to see her broken, bleeding, suffering beyond words for ruining everything when I had her precious brother literally dead to rights! Yes, she will die, and hers will be the most enjoyable death of all, no matter if it takes me years to make sure of it! Beware, Anastasia, and all Romanovs, your time is now up!"

He let out another insane laugh as the relicquary rocketed him over the Urals towards St. Petersburg and his destiny-a laugh that would continue to echo loudly around Russia for decades to come as those who believed in his principles acted them out with terrible results...


	15. It's Never Too Late for a Happy Ending

EPILOGUE:

CHRISTMAS DAY NIGHT, 1991

MOSCOW

* * *

"Well, it's just about time we finish the proceedings," the white-haired man told the excited crowd beneath the Kremlin's walls, "But before we do, Mr. Gorbachev and I invited one last speaker for the occasion, someone fitting enough to be a bridge from the past to the present. Give a large hand if you will, to the last remaining Romanov."

The crowd did indeed break into a huge applause as the old woman tenderly made her way to the microphone with the help of her cane. She scanned over the crowds of cheering people, all actually happy--the first time she'd seen her countrymen truly happy in close to three quarters of a century. She leaned close to the microphone. "I remember it like it was just yesterday," she said in a creaky yet strong voice that brought the square to silence, "For one brief moment at our family's three hundredth anniversary ball, all seemed right with the world. Then, HE came in, with his hateful yellow eyes and his dark magical powers, and he cursed our family to eternal death. I don't know why I was the one who survived, but all this time I've been watching you, my people. I've seen what has happened to you over the years. Although he died for good sixty-five years ago on a bridge in Paris, those who believed in the same things he did kept his work alive by the terrible things they did to you in what they said was the name of social progress. And I felt every ounce of pain and suffering, and wondered whether my family would be remembered or cared for again. By your actions over the last few months, you have shown that you do care, and by bringing down those who have oppressed you through your heroic actions, you have killed Rasputin once and for all. You are a strong people; you always were, and now you stand triumphant. So it gives me great pleasure to tell you, the nightmare is over. You are free. Move ahead to a brighter future, for you have earned it. Thank you."

The applause she got was tremendous. "Her Imperial Highness," Yeltsin gently nudged her back from the microphone, "And I guess then it's time for the final transfer. Flag crew," he called to the uniformed men around the Kremlin's main flagpole, "Make the transition."

Tears started flowing from the old woman's eyes as music she'd thought she'd never hear again rose up from the band on the platform. She glanced upward at the flagpole as the red flag, emblem of hate and terror and of everything Rasputin had stood for, was pulled down for the last time. Once it was unhooked, the white, blue, and red flag of her father was attached and hefted up to the top of the pole where she knew in her heart it belonged. Fireworks shot into the air and exploded when it reached the top. She glanced out over the square, unable to control her emotions anymore. On the far side, a crane was pulling down what was probably the last statue of Lenin--now exposed to all of Russia as Rasputin's partner in slime-- still standing in Moscow, only to, perhaps on purpose, drop it from a high position, shattering it on the square. Those in the crowd not cheering set about throwing the remains all around. It was like a dream she'd never have thought she'd live to witness.

"Well said, your Highness," Gorbachev patted her on the shoulder, still looking rather glum that the world he knew was coming to an end that evening--although she could wholly sympathize, "In a way, I guess, over the last few months, your family has come back to life. Oh, speaking of which," he glanced down the walkway, "There's someone here who'd like a word with you."

"Who?"

"You haven't met her yet, but if what she tells us is right, you're in for a pleasant surprise," Yeltsin took her arm and helped to escort her down the walkway. The outline of another elderly woman, formally dressed, could be seen. "Your Highness," the incoming president told her, "Allow me to introduce Mrs. Raisa Rodanov Ryutin, chairwoman of the State Archaeological Commission."

"Rodanov?" from the back of her mind, over the decades, something clicked, "You mean...?"

"My father was the man you cheered up all those years ago in the hospital. He'd talk about you all the time after the Revolution. I'm just honored to meet you in person at last, your Highness," Raisa walked forward and hugged her, "He and Ivan Turganov were bent on beating the curse of Rasputin and getting your family safely out of the country before anything happened to them. At the time, he didn't know you'd missed that train, and repaying you further for your kindness drove him all the while. He and Turganov led a group of Whites towards Yekaterinburg after they got information they were there, but in the end...they were no more than two days too late, and that haunted him the rest of his days. However, I'm glad to tell you I can atone for him; your Highness, my teams have found your family's bodies outside Yekaterinburg."

"You have?" her eyes went wide with excitement.

"I've been looking for years, using under-the-table funds whenever possible since of course the old regime wasn't too enthusiastic about any such search," Raisa told her, "But we'll be bringing them back here to the capital once we've excavated them all, and Mr. Yeltsin's arranged for a proper funeral, haven't you?"

"Indeed we have," Yeltsin nodded, "It'll be a formal state affair, your Highness, just the way it should have been. And we'll lay them to rest in the Fortress with the rest of your ancestors."

"I...I don't know what to say," she fought to find the right words.

"If you could, please accept my apology," Gorbachev bowed humbly, "On behalf of everyone in my now defunct party for their terrible treatment of your family and the people over these long years."

"Mr. Gorbachev, I've forgiven you and everyone long ago," she told him, "Forgiveness is the way a wise man someone I loved knew would have wanted it. And why hold a grudge?" she glanced at more fireworks going off above them, "We can only move forward, after all; whatever the future holds, let's embrace it and make the best of it."

* * *

She was still smiling as she lay in her bed back in the hotel later that evening, listening to the people celebrate in the streets below. For all its dark evil power, she knew in her heart now, and for all the lives it had claimed, Rasputin's curse had failed in the end. Gorbachev was right; her family was alive again, and they would stay that way.

She rolled over and sighed. She had lived to see what she'd hoped she'd see. Now her life was complete. Now she was ready to join them when a higher force deemed she was ready.

"Anastasia..." came a low voice from somewhere in the room...a voice she hadn't heard in close to sixty years, "Anastasia, it is time. Come on home."

A bright light was now shining around the ceiling. She squinted up through it. "Grandmama?" she whispered softly. Yes, there was no doubting it; there was her grandmother, standing right in the middle of the light, beckoning her forward. A smile crossing her face, she rose up and walked towards her, the light getting brighter and brighter as she did so--and she noticed that, with each step, she seemed to be getting younger and younger, until when she finally stood before her grandmother face to face, she was just a girl again, as she had been that night everything had come crashing down. "Oh my dear Anastasia, welcome home at last," her grandmother hugged her strongly, "I was starting to think you'd never be ready."

"I suppose some higher force decided I was to have stayed until it ended, and we were rehabilitated in the people's eyes. Oh Grandmama, it is so good to see you again. Is everyone else...?" her heart leaped at the prospect of seeing faces she hadn't seen in three quarters of a century again.

"See for yourself, my dear," her grandmother pointed into the light. A tall figure was walking towards them. She blinked. Yes, that crisp beard and those warm eyes...

"Papa!" she leaped towards him. She had spent long nights after her memory had returned wishing she could see him again somehow, and now that moment had come. Tears were filling his eyes as he swept her up and flew her for the first time in so long. "Oh my precious Anastasia," he whimpered between the tears, "I thought I'd never...I'm so proud of what you said today; you've kept us alive for the people for so long. I've been waiting for this moment for so many years. I just wish I'd kept you nearby before they stormed the palace; then I wouldn't have failed on my promise to make sure nothing happened to you..."

"You didn't fail, Papa," she was sobbing herself now, "It happened too fast for you to have done anything, I know that now. I just wish I'd been able to say goodbye when it had happened; that's what's been dragging on my soul for so long. Is Mama...?"

An excited burst of pleasure to her right showed her mother all right. With a flourish, Alexandra picked her off her father and embracing her, sobbing in delight and unable to say anything. And coming out of the light now, she saw...

"Alexei!" she pulled free and rushed to her brother, "Oh Alexei, I think I've missed you the most!"

"I think he did too," their father said, "He lost the will to go on after you missed the train, really--in fact I think we all did. He said you were his better half, and he felt incomplete without you."

"Guess what?" Alexei seemed eager to tell her something, "I don't bleed anymore. Once we came here, I finally became normal. So I guess dying wasn't all that bad. Still, it would have been nice to take the throne someday. I always wondered how I would have turned out as tsar."

"Well, I stand by what I said so long ago, Alexei, you WOULD have been the best tsar Russia ever had," she told him, rubbing his hair in delight. And coming out of the light now, she could make out her sisters. They shouted in delight and embraced her when she ran to them next. "So what took you so long!?" Olga told her, overjoyed, "Grandma was right, we thought you'd never get up here!"

"You made us wait so long to thank you for destroying Rasputin--twice!" Tatiana added.

"Well, the first time was basically his own foolishness at jumping onto the ice after me not knowing how..."

"Come on, over here," Marie dragged her deeper into the light, "He hasn't been waiting as long as we have, but every day without you's been hard on him too."

"Who...?" she stopped as she saw the figure by the marble railing that had appeared out of nowhere. "Dmitry," her heart rose. It had been only fourteen years since he'd gone to the next world, but that had seemed like a lifetime to her. And now, here he was again--as she had first seen him, as the boy who'd popped out of the door in the wall to escort her and her grandmother to safety just as the Bolsheviks were about to kill them. And, she noticed as she rushed to embrace him, he was, despite the age he was appearing at, wearing a formal court uniform. "Dmitry, where'd you get this?" she asked him, amazed.

"I'm now Grand Duke Dmitry Oldenstein-Romanov," he explained with a smile, "It was your father's idea."

"Oh he deserved a reward as I saw it," the former tsar strolled over and smiled approvingly at his son-in-law, "How could I not reward the man who saved my daughter's life three separate times?"

"Well, two and a half, sir," Dmitry admitted modestly, "She did basically save herself on the bridge after I'd shown up."

"Ah, so you finally got your fortune, huh Dmitry?" she teased him, "Now wasn't it worth waiting for to get it the right way?"

"At any rate, it was a thrill to welcome him fully to our family," her father told her, "Which reminds me, we were waiting for you to show up to finish the tricentennial ball after it got interrupted by HIM, and since I'm told the two of you did quite a bit of dancing in life, why don't the two of you take the lead? Bandleader," he called down the staircase railing, "It's time. 'At the Beginning' if you please."

She could hear the familiar song rising up again. "Come on," Dmitry took her hand and led her down the staircase, "Now we can finally do what I wanted to that night before Rasputin ruined everything. But you lead; this is your celebration, after all. Surprised?"

Indeed she was. For out of the light, the Winter Palace had emerged around them--the Winter Palace as it had been that fateful night so many Decembers ago, restored to its former glory. And as they took to the center of the ballroom and began dancing to the music, familiar people came out of seemingly thin air and started dancing to it as well, although they kept a respectful circle around the two children who had grown to adulthood and were now children again in this special place. She recognized so many familiar faces, so many lives that had been shattered from Rasputin's blind hate of her family, now restored and happy again. Most of them gave her a proud smile, and she knew they were glad to have her back. As she was glad to have them.

She glanced around for more familiar faces. Sure enough, there was Bishop Feofan, leaning against the throne her grandmother and Alexei were sitting down in to watch the ball proceed as it should have. She had learned of his fate shortly after she'd been invited back to Russia by Gorbachev, that the bishop had been arrested by the Bolsheviks for harboring refugees they'd branded enemies of the people, but despite being severely tortured and eventually executed, he'd refused to betray them or renounce his faith. He smiled and waved at the two children whose relationship he'd approved of back when few others would have. And there over by the snack table was good old Vladimir, taking more than his fair share. He waved as well when he saw she was looking. True, money may have been his objective as well when he and Dmitry had convinced her to go to Paris with him, but she knew from years of experience that his heart was generally in the right place, so it was no surprise her old friend would be here as well. And a quick glance back through the crowds, where her parents were dancing themselves now, she could see Uncle Michael and Aunt Natalia dancing away, finally able to be together without anyone interfering. And next to them were Turganov, Rodansky, and the blinded soldier--now fully able to see--who had chosen her sisters as their dance partners, with the rest of the wounded men she'd comforted so long ago leaning against the far wall, taking everything in. She had to laugh--Marie had finally gotten her soldier, better late than never. And over by the railing leading into the ballroom--she had to squint to make sure she was seeing what she was seeing, but indeed she was--were a pair of peasants conspicuously out of place among the well-dressed nobles, but who smiled warmly and waved at her. She was finally getting to meet Dmitry's parents, she knew, and she could tell they had no problem that their son had fallen for a princess. Oh the things she could tell them when she got the time...

But that time would be later, she thought to herself, still whirling with Dmitry across the floor. Right now, she wanted to enjoy in full the fact that she was back with her family again, back at that magical moment so many Decembers ago--where once upon a December had become now and forever--in a place where she knew Rasputin could never come even if his soul still lurked in some other realm, and this time she'd never leave them again. Finally, after so many years of waiting and hoping, she was finally home again.

THE END


End file.
